


The Sounds of Someday

by alleinimmer



Series: Silent Night [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Under the Red Hood (2010), DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Case Fic, Drug Cartel, Drug Dealing, Drugs, Gang Violence, Graphic Description of Corpses, Gun Violence, Swearing, Violence, warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:47:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27630938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alleinimmer/pseuds/alleinimmer
Summary: It's been two years since the Red Hood took over Crime Alley before he suddenly vanished. Most have already forgotten the ruthless killer, believing him to be dead. But when a small time drug dealer is murdered, Commissioner Gordon suspects the Red Hood may be behind it. Now it's a race against time for the GCPD and the Bats to discover the truth before it's too late.
Series: Silent Night [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2162160
Comments: 6
Kudos: 99





	1. November 9th, 1:14 AM

Detective Vince Schreiner heaved an enormous sigh and then straightened up with a wry smile. 

"Well, boys." He said at long last, still smirking sarcastically. "I think I know what killed him." 

A few of the surrounding officers chuckled at him in response, but it's a sound born more from obligation than genuine humor, a sound that's as lifeless as the corpse that's splayed before them, arms and legs spread far apart and face forever frozen in a look of absolute, undeniable terror, a single bullet hole centered neatly between the wide and lifeless eyes. 

Tom shifted uneasily on his feet and looked pointedly away from the dead body, turning his attention instead to the dozen officers that are milling about the crime scene and forcing himself to breathe deep and slow. The cop beside him, who had been busily taking notes for the investigative report, spared him a quick but wary glance.

"Hey, man, you alright?" He asked Tom, sounding as though he already regretted asking. 

"I'm fine." Tom assured him shortly.

"You sure? 'Cause if you pass out-"

"I'm not gonna pass out." Tom said determinedly, trying to convince himself that it was true just as much as the officer, who apparently didn't need nearly as much convincing as Tom did. 

"Alright." Was all he said with a shrug, turning back to the body and leaving Tom to take several great lungfuls of frigid November air in peace. Jesus Christ, he did not sign up for this.

"You okay there, Tom?" Schreiner called over to him cheerfully, evidently delighted that Tom was so obviously doing everything in his power to keep himself from vomiting in the gutter. "What's the matter? You act like you've never seen a murder victim before!" 

Tom swallowed thickly, trying not to be too appalled by the blatant, even flippant, disrespect for a man who's lying discarded and stripped of all dignity in a piss-soaked ghetto alley. Schreiner was a policemen, after all; he saw this and so much worse each and every day. He imagined anyone would become desensitized to it all after a while. That you'd almost have to be, if you wanted to keep yourself from losing your mind to the worst of humanity's many horrors. 

And besides. 

This was Gotham. Not exactly a city known for its compassion. 

"I'm fine, Detective." Tom assured him faintly. There's a new set of flashing red-and-blue strobe lights that's slid gracefully onto the scene, but no one seems to be paying it any mind. In fact, the vast majority of uniforms don't seem to be doing much at all. Not that they really need to - the street is eerily empty of curious civilians and completely silent, lit only by the squad cars and the officers' dancing flashlights. There's no need to protect the sanctity of the crime scene, especially now that it's already been thoroughly examined and picked over by Detective Schreiner, and bagged, documented, and photographed by the evidence lab techs. Those that linger are just awaiting the arrival of the medical examiner and an official dismissal. 

"Yeah?" Schreiner asks him, still grinning at him wickedly. "Well, I gotta be honest with you, Newsweek, you look almost as bad as el Chapo here, and that's saying something." 

"Sir, if I may ask, what makes you so sure this is drug related?" Tom asked, forcing himself to ignore the jab. The GCPD's reputation for corruption and police brutality preceded them, after all. 

"Aside from the fact that he and I were on a first name basis? Simple. Look around, kid. You see this street we're on? This is skid row. All those lovely, boarded-up buildings over there? Crack houses, every one of 'em. How about those needles at your feet? Yeah, you see it now, don't cha? Careful now, watch your step. I'd hate for one of 'em to go through your boots. Highest rates of Hep C and HIV in the country right here, did you know that? And did you catch that gaggle of prostitutes two blocks down on our way in? You can still see them under the streetlight over there, see? Now, normally a Gotham whore will fuck you for a couple hundred, tops, and that's for the night. But in this neighborhood they're more than happy to accept any hit, bump, gram, or ounce that you can offer. And why this neighborhood, you ask? Because you, my friend, are in the heart of Crime Alley - the worst ghetto in America and Gotham's low-rent drug trade epi-center. And this motherfucker-" Schreiner swiveled his flashlight back to the corpse. "-is lying in his own filth in some back alley with a bullet hole in his head and his blood and brains spattered across the pavement. So I think I can safely assume that he is in fact a drug-dealing, low-life piece of shit that no one's gonna miss." 

"Brilliant deduction, Detective Schreiner." Came a hard, gruff voice from amidst the cluster of policemen that had gathered in the short distance between the body and the fleet of squad cars parked along the deserted avenue. Tom turned and watched, curiously, as the officers fell abruptly silent, shifting nervously as a lone figure broke away from the group and strode purposefully toward them. "And here I thought you didn't have it in you."

"Fuck." Schreiner muttered under his breath, his sardonic smirk disappearing behind a sullen scowl as he turned to meet the man. "Commissioner Gordon. What brings you all the way out to the bowels of Gotham City at this lovely hour? I know the GCPD's recruitment rates have been low lately, but I didn't think we were so short-staffed that we needed to pull the Commissioner from his cushy office!"

'Holy shit.' Tom thought, turning slightly to get a better look. 'Commissioner Gordon.' 

He didn't know what he was expecting, but somehow, the legendary James Gordon was exactly everything Tom had envisioned him to be. While most veterans of the force were overweight and slumped beneath years of too much work, too much heartache, too many regrets, and too little pay, the jaded poster children of heart disease and high blood pressure, Jim Gordon was tall and trim, his hair and moustache a vaguely reddish brown and his eyes bright behind his thick glasses. Dressed simply in a beige trench coat, his frown deepened as he approached, and his expression, though stern, was undeniably, fiercely intelligent, a face that clearly broadcasted 'don't fuck with me.'

"Heard you started working PR, Schreiner. Figured the day the department decided that was a good idea was the day I'd be needed back in the field." Gordon said, snapping on a pair of pale blue latex gloves as he came to a stop before them. He glanced over at Tom and looked him up and down. "You're Mr. Vogt? With 'Time' magazine?" 

"Yes, Sir, it's good to meet you." Tom told him, offering him his hand. 

"Welcome to Gotham, Mr. Vogt. I trust Detective Schreiner has been behaving himself?" 

"Yes, thank you, Commissioner. It's been...interesting so far." 

Schreiner's scowl only deepened at their exchange. "Sir, there was really no need for you to come down here. This seems pretty straightforward-"

"Walk me through it, then." Gordon said, and though his tone was light, it carried the subtle hint of a threat. "It's been years since I've worked the streets. I could use a refresher course." 

Schreiner eyed the Commissioner suspiciously for a moment with a frown, as though he were carefully considering Gordon's interest and weighing it against his own limited options, but eventually said with a shrug. "Simple case of a drug deal gone sideways."

"Any witnesses to back that up?"

"Not a one."

"So then who called it in?"

"Not sure. Call came from a pay phone a couple blocks that way. Dispatch said it sounded like a kid."

"A kid?"

Schreiner shrugged again. Gordon heaved a sigh. 

"Okay. And who was the first officer on the scene?"

"I was, Sir." The cop who had been taking notes, the one who had reluctantly asked Tom if he was alright, quickly stepped forward, his back ramrod straight as he presented himself. 

"And you are?" 

"Jake Copeland, Sir." 

"What's your unit number?"

"Three-one-four."

"Okay. Can you tell me what you found when you got here?"

Tom listened carefully as Jake quickly recounted the details of the scene as he found it, which wasn't much. Empty street. A single, dead body, fingers still loosely curled around a fully-loaded handgun. The gun had been dusted for prints, and the lab tech had been able to lift a few, but aside from that, there was no real, noteworthy evidence at all anywhere to be found. 

Gordon nodded to the two distant figures still lingering beneath the streetlight two blocks down. "Were they here when you got here?" 

"Yeah, they've been here this whole time." Copeland told him. 

"Anyone go talk to them yet?"

"We've tried, Sir. They ain't talking."

"Of course they're not." Gordon muttered. "Arrest 'em for loitering and have them taken downtown. Maybe a few hours in a holding cell will get them to cooperate. Anything else?" 

"No, Sir." 

"Perfect. So, we've got no witnesses, no suspects, no leads, no motive, and no way to identify the victim until the lab can run the prints. And that's assuming he's even in the system." 

"Victim's name is Jose Desoto." Schreiner told him promptly. "Forty-one years old, multiple charges of drug possession, drug distribution, armed robbery and assault, battery, and if I remember right there's possession of child pornography in there as well. We had some good times, me and him."

"You knew him?" Gordon asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh yeah." Schreiner snorted. "Before I came to homicide I worked in narcotics for three years. I'd recognize this little shit-stain anywhere."

"If you don't believe there's a God, Schreiner, I suggest you start." Gordon said. "'Cause if you don't have a wallet or an ID, you'd be waiting for at least two weeks to even start this investigation."

"Haven't checked for a wallet." 

"...What?" Gordon snapped, his head whipping around to fix him with a glare. "Why not?"

"Why bother? Like I said, this was a drug murder. Maybe a mugging. Either way, there's no way in hell that the killer would have left the wallet. And besides, clothes and everything in them are gonna be processed by the ME and then handed over to the evidence lab, which would have eventually made its way back to us." 

"Is the ME here yet?" Gordon asked, crouching down beside the body. 

"Five minutes out."

"What about photos?"

"Taken care of." Schreiner assured him. "Have at it, Chief." 

Tom knows next to nothing about proper homicide protocol or basic police work in general, but he can tell from the look on the Commissioner's face that he's annoyed at just how cavalier Detective Schreiner is being about the whole thing - and he's seen enough bad crime TV to know that desecrating a murder scene is nothing short of a mortal sin in the world of criminology. But whatever Gordon's undoubtedly thinking, he manages to keep it to himself, and instead turns and begins quickly checking the front pockets of the Desoto's jeans, which turn out empty. Seemingly unsurprised, Gordon wastes no time moving on to the pockets of the victim's leather jacket. From one, he pulls out a small, black wallet. Credit cards, a driver's license, and several hundred dollar bills are present and accounted for. For the first time that night, Schreiner looks genuinely, though mildly, surprised. 

"They left his wallet?"

"Looks like it." Gordon said pointedly, waving a crime lab tech over. While the tech was busy depositing the wallet in a clear evidence bag and labeling it carefully, Gordon had moved to the opposite pocket. From this one he pulled several wads of clear plastic wrap, each one tied neatly into a little makeshift bag. Gordon shined his flashlight over them.

"Heroin." He pronounced. 

"There's no way." Schreiner protested, stepping closer for a better look. 

"I think I know heroin when I see it, Schreiner." Gordon said coolly. "But, I suppose we won't know for sure until the lab confirms it." 

"That's heroin?" Tom blurted without thinking, staring at the little bags that are dangling the Commissioner's fingers. Inside, he can see what looks like little globs of shiny, black, jelly. "I thought heroin was a powder."

"Depends on how it's processed." Gordon told him, holding out a baggie so he can get a better look. "But you're right, it usually is a powder. This stuff though, this is special. This, Mr. Vogt, is black tar heroin."

"Black tar?" Tom asked, taking it from him and inspecting it closely.

"Not the most imaginative name, maybe, but it's definitely the most potent. This stuff is usually eighty to ninety percent pure. Compared to the powdered form, which is usually only...what, twenty percent?"

"If that." Schreiner confirmed.

"Jesus." Tom breathed, quickly handing the bag back to Gordon. "How much is this stuff worth?" 

"This? Each bag is maybe...what, ten dollars?"

"That's it?!" 

"Supply and demand, Mr. Vogt."

"Black tar is still relatively rare this far northeast." Schreiner put in. "Not much competition. If I had to guess, the price is probably higher down south."

"Probably." Gordon agreed, handing the little bags off to the tech who's still hovering nearby. "So. An armed drug dealer carrying several ounces of pure heroin gets gunned down in some Park Row back alley. And the killer leaves both the wallet and the drugs. Why?"

"He's an idiot?" Schreiner suggested. "Or high?"

Gordon remained silent for a moment, studying the single gunshot wound by the light of his flashlight. Tom tried not to look too closely at the dark, coagulated blood or the pale brain matter that had crusted along the opening. Gordon's flashlight gradually makes its way down along the victim's motionless frame. White tee shirt beneath a brown leather jacket. Blue jeans and white Air Jordan's. If there were any other gunshot wounds, any bloodstains at all, they would have been easy to see...

"Single gunshot wound to the head." He eventually says, slowly. "Right between the eyes. Small entry hole, relatively little surrounding damage...handgun. Definitely smaller than a 38. There's no way in hell anyone could manage that kind of precision while they were high."

"Unless he was in point blank range." Schreiner pointed out. "Maybe they were in the middle of making a deal and something went wrong?" 

"Maybe. But if there was a disagreement, Desoto would have had time to react, especially if he saw his killer pull out a gun. Instead, Desoto doesn't fire a single shot...makes no effort to leave or defend himself...and lets himself get shot in the head." 

"Maybe it was a hit." Copeland suggested. "Desoto does something to piss off the boss. Boss orders him to be killed. The killer is someone Desoto knows, maybe even someone he works with closely and trusts. Could explain why he didn't put up a fight, or why the killer left the drugs - he was sending a message." 

"Maybe." Gordon allowed, though hesitatingly. "We know anything about Desoto's supplier?"

"Not a thing. We think whoever's pulling the strings is in Juarez, since that's where Desoto crossed into the US back in '03, but since the Mexican police won't cooperate with us, we don't know for sure." 

"Hmm." Gordon hummed in response as he brought his flashlight back up to the victim's face, studying it silently. 

"No." He said eventually with a sigh. "It's a good theory, but it doesn't work." 

"Why not, Sir?" Tom couldn't help but ask. 

"Simple. If it was an inside job, the boss would have made an example of him. Desoto would have been tortured for hours and then killed slowly and brutally in front of his other dealers - really drive home the point not to screw him over. This was quick. Execution style." 

"Maybe he was held and killed somewhere else and they moved him here?" 

"Blood on the pavement." Gordon pointed out, flicking his flashlight down to the dried stain beneath Desoto's head. "He was killed here. And besides," He said with a sigh. "It's not everyday someone dies with that look on their face." 

"Scared shitless?" Tom asked. "With all due respect, Commissioner, I'm pretty sure that's how I would look if I knew I was about to eat a bullet."

Gordon shook his head. "Here's what they don't teach you in the movies, Mr. Vogt: the vast majority of the time someone's murdered," He said, "It's by someone the victim knows. Usually quite well. That's especially true for drug dealers. When someone dies, there's usually this look of recognition. Resignation, even. It's not too often that you see a face like this."

He turned suddenly to Copeland, who's still taking notes. 

"Get Arkham on the phone." He says. "Ask them to confirm that all their patients are accounted for."

"Sir, if there was a breakout, we would have heard something by now-"

"Just do it." Gordon snaps, and, properly chastised, the officer quickly stepped away to place the call. 

Schreiner looked over at Gordon, all traces of humor completely gone. "You don't seriously think this is was an Arkham nut, do you, Commissioner?"

"It's something we need to consider, at least." Gordon said, nodding at the shockingly white face and wide, horrified eyes. The slack mouth that's a little too open, as though it had died screaming. "Whoever did this, they managed to scare the living hell out of Desoto - maybe literally. There aren't too many people that could have done that, Schreiner, but we've definitely seen it happen before. Can you think of anyone in particular?" 

"Scarecrow." Schreiner said without hesitation, arms folded over his chest as he studied the corpse. "...Maybe Joker." 

"Scarecrow's more likely." Gordon said. "But I agree." 

"What about a rival gang?" Schreiner quickly cut in. "Maybe he was ambushed? Might explain why he was so afraid when he died." 

"He wouldn't have been this afraid even if it were an ambush. He would have been surprised, sure, maybe even pissed, but an ambush killing would have been quick. He wouldn't have had time to even realize what was happening." Gordon countered. 

"Commissioner." Copeland called, making his way back over. "I just confirmed with Arkham, Sir - all patients are accounted for."

"Oh, well, thank God for that." Schreiner muttered. "I mean, we've still got absolutely nothing else to go on, but hey, at least we can rule out crazy." 

"It's not 'crazy' we need to be worrying about." Gordon said softly. He was staring at Desoto's body with a hard, calculating look, as though he was beginning to realize exactly what it was they were dealing with. 

"No?" Schreiner asked him mockingly. "You really think there's someone out there worse than some escaped Arkham lunatic?"

"Much worse." Gordon assured him. 

"Well, would you mind enlightening the rest of us? Because from where I stand, no matter which way you look at it, this case that makes no fucking sense. Murdered drug dealer, empty alley, no witnesses, no suspects, and the victim in full possession of his cash, cards, and ID. Oh, and let's not forget the several bags of pure grade heroin that apparently weren't worth taking. So no motive, either." 

"Victim was a drug dealer who worked primarily in Crime Alley." Gordon said slowly, beginning to pace back and forth beside the corpse. "Killed by a single gunshot to the front of the head sometime around midnight, right here in his own territory. Now the killer," Gordon continued, stopping a few feet from the corpse and raising his arm as though holding a gun. "is somewhere directly in front of Desoto when he shoots him. Maybe he's only a few feet away or maybe he's across the street, maybe the killer got the jump on him or maybe not, but either way, Desoto sees who kills him and is completely terrified of whoever it is he sees. So terrified, in fact, that he's practically paralyzed with fear. Killer leaves the wallet and the drugs and disappears into the night without a trace." 

"This wasn't about the drugs." Tom says suddenly. "The killer didn't want them or he didn't know Desoto had them." 

"This was drug-related." Gordon corrected him. "I just don't think that was the primary motive." 

"That doesn't make any sense-" 

"Single gunshot. Right between the eyes." Gordon continued, as though he hadn't heard Schreiner. "No sign of contact damage. Maybe the shooter was still within point blank range, like you said, but he didn't have the gun against his forehead. There was some distance between them when the gun was fired. Size of the bullet hole says it's likely to be from a handgun."

"Yeah, doesn't really narrow down the list, Chief." Schreiner pointed out. "Even if this weren't Crime Alley, it's still Gotham. Almost anybody you run into is gonna carry a gun, even if it's just for protection." 

"But not everyone knows how to adjust a shot. What's the problem with a handgun, Officer Copeland?" 

"Uh," Copeland stuttered. "The kickback. Gotta account for the kickback. Makes it harder to aim for things." 

"That's right. Any kind of handgun is gonna have some amount of kickback to it when you fire, which is gonna affect the trajectory of the bullet. Which our killer did. Perfectly. Perfect kill shot. No, whoever did this knows how to shoot." 

"Oh, okay." Schreiner drawled. "So only every criminal worth his salt. That really narrows it down." 

"It does." Gordon said firmly, and began to resume his fervent pacing back and forth. "It narrows it down to one very specific person."

"Who-"

"Just think about it for a minute, Detective. What are the points that really matter? Crime Alley. Midnight. Murdered drug dealer, killed with one perfect shot. Money and drugs aren't taken. And here's the piece that really brings it all together: Desoto was terrified when he realized who was about to shoot him. Sound like anyone we know?"

The silence that settled over the group seemed to stretch for a tortuously long time, but eventually, the identical looks of blank confusion etched across Schreiner and Copeland's faces slowly faded away. Tom watched, bewildered and more than a little concerned, as they both finally seemed to realize what Gordon was getting at, starring at the Commissioner with looks of complete horror that nearly matched Desoto's. 

"Oh, God." Schreiner breathed at long last. "He's back."


	2. November 6, 2:38 PM

Jason gritted his teeth as the plane began to abruptly pick up speed, and couldn't help but grimace as his chair shook violently beneath him, jostling his shoulder and his ribs. Hissing as they shot down the tarmac and launched into the air, the force of gravity pushing him roughly against his seat, he brought his free hand up to steady his bad arm, hanging uselessly in its sling. As they continued to climb, rising through the cloud cover, a rough patch of turbulence shook the plane forcefully, and Jason swallowed back a curse. God fucking dammit he had not thought this through, though he'd be damned if he ever admitted it. Overhead, the intercom crackled to life. 

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking! Welcome aboard our flight from Chicago to Gotham City today! We're expecting to reach our destination in two hours and thirty five minutes. We have not yet reached our cruising altitude of forty thousand feet just yet, so if you could keep your seatbelts fastened for just a few more minutes, we would greatly appreciate it! We are expecting a little turbulence along the way, but nothing to be concerned about. I'll be back on before we arrive to give you an update on our arrival time and the weather in Gotham, but for now, sit, back, relax, and have a pleasant flight!" 

"Cheerful bastard." Jason growled under his breath. But at least the plane was moving smoothly now. Sinking back against his seat, Jason closed his eyes, forcing himself to take a several deep breaths as the pain in his arm gradually faded to a more manageable ache. 

"Hey, man, you alright?" The man seated next to him had been shooting him nervous glances ever since he'd sat down, eyeing the various cuts, bruises, and line of stitches that adorned Jason's face with trepidation. 

"Peachy."

"Are you sure? Do you need anything? I can call the stewardess if you-"

"I'm fine. I've got painkillers in my bag if I need them." Jason lied. 

"Oh, okay." The man said sounding relieved. "Well, if you do need anything just let me know. I'm Tom, by the way. Tom Vogt." 

Jason nodded. Around him, he could hear people shifting expectantly about, jackets rustling, voices buzzing over the roar of the engines, and it grated on his frazzled, exhausted nerves. The past few days had been nothing but a blur of explosions, gunfire, and blood, broken up with only brief snatches of sleep so ravaged by nightmares or such shallow, drug-induced affairs that they barely gave him any reprieve at all. The headache that had been slowly building behind his eyes over the past few days had finally reached a crescendo, no doubt the effect of a roller coaster of adrenaline surges and crashes, several days with little sleep and even less food, and the pressurized air of the cabin finally catching up with him. Jason shifted, trying to get comfortable in his rigid seat. If he could just manage to get a few minutes of sleep...If he could just somehow manage to tune everything out and get a few minutes of sleep, he'd be okay. That was all he needed. Just a few minutes. Just a few minutes of peace...

"So, uh, you ever been to Gotham before?" 

Jason's eyes fluttered open. 

"I'm from there." He said shortly. 

"Really?" Yeah, apparently that had been the wrong thing to say. "Wow, no kidding? I've never been. Hey, what can you tell me about it? It's not really as bad as everyone says it is, is it?"

"No." Jason assured him flatly. "It's much worse."

The man laughed, though it sounded forced. "Ha ha! Oh, great. Thanks for the heads-up!"

"No problem." Jason said, turning slightly away and shutting his eyes again, hoping his new friend would take the hint and leave him be. 

"Yeah, everyone told me I was crazy for wanting to come here, but you know I figured why not? You only live once, am I right? And besides, how bad can it really be? I mean, what's the worst part about Gotham? In your opinion? The corruption scandals? Or the unsolved murder rates? Oh! What about the smuggling and drug trade? Hey! Do you know anything about-" 

Christ. This was gonna be a long flight.

Jason was just turning back around and getting ready to tell the bastard to go kindly fuck off, when the plane lurched violently and unexpectedly, throwing him forcefully against the wall. He gasped, black stars erupting across his vision as he came crashing into the side of the plane, his arm catching the brunt of his weight. Through a white-hot haze of agony, he was vaguely aware of the little panel chiming obnoxiously above him.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the Captain has turned the seatbelt light on. Please return to your seats immediately and remain seated with your seatbelt is securely fastened. Thank you." 

Jason held his arm as the plane continued to shudder beneath him. His stomach roiled as the plane gave another sudden jolt, and with it another wave of misery washed over him. Groaning, Jason slumped back against his chair, blood roaring in his ears and took several deep, deliberate breaths.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine." 

"No, really, dude, you don't look so good." 

"Gee, thanks." 

"Do you need your painkillers?"

"What?" Jason was having a hard time focusing on what the guy was saying.

"Your painkillers? You said you had painkillers in your bag."

"I'm fine."

"I can get them for you if you need them-"

"Pretty sure the flight attendant said to stay seated." 

"No, really, dude, I don't mind-"

"I said I'm fine!" Jason snarled, turning his head ever so slightly to glare pointedly at his seatmate. It probably wasn't his most intimidating moment, slumped over and pathetic, but it was the best he could manage. The man - Tom, Jason remembered belatedly - glanced quickly up and down Jason's limp frame, and then he looked over toward the front of the cabin, as though searching for the nearest stewardess in the event of catastrophe, but he didn't push the issue any further. Jason turned away again and did his best to ignore him, concentrating on taking another round of several deep, slow breaths. 

The truth was, he would kill for some painkillers right about now. The past hour had been hell enough to get through alone, and the pain had only getting worse with each passing minute since, to the point where it was becoming damn near unbearable. 

But what was he supposed to do? The last time he had taken anything was a couple days ago in Mexico, and even there he had only taken a half dose. And though he had been given a prescription to get him through the next few weeks, he had torn it apart after he had left the hospital. Partly because he didn't entirely trust the doctor's credentials (seriously, what the fuck was he supposed to do with forty 800 mg Oxycontins??) and partly because it wouldn't get him anything on this side of the border. Hell, with security being what it was these days, he doubted even a legally obtained bottle of opioids would even make it past customs. Honestly, why bother? 

And besides...

He deserved this...after everything that happened...

Jason shook his head. He couldn't afford to let himself go there right now. He just needed to focus on getting through the next few hours in one piece (ideally without killing anyone) and then get back to his apartment as quickly and smoothly as possible. 

And pray to God that somehow he would manage to avoid any of the Bats' radar. The last thing he needed was to have to explain to them what had happened and what exactly he was doing back in Gotham...

Eventually, plane stopped shaking. Jason slowly relaxed. 

"You know, you really probably shouldn't be traveling like this." Tom informed him.

"Probably not." Jason agreed. 

"So, uh, if you don't mind me asking, what happened to you anyway? I mean-" He elaborated quickly, "-how'd you hurt your arm?"

"Mexican drug lord shot me." 

Tom shot him a startled, mildly horrified look, wide eyes darting across Jason's unapologetically bruised and battered face, undoubtedly searching for some sign that he was joking. Jason met his gaze evenly, and after a few moments, Tom slowly grinned.

"Man, you've got a fucked up sense of humor, you know that?"

"Yeah, I've been told." 

"Sorry, what did you say your name was?" 

"I didn't." Another few awkward moments passed as Tom waited expectantly. Jason sighed. "Oliver." He said after a moment's hesitation.

"Good to meet you, Oliver." Tom said cheerfully, thrusting out his hand. Jeez, Gotham was gonna eat this poor, naïve fucker alive. "So, I'm guessing you're coming home from, uh, 'Mexico' is it?" He winked, as though they were sharing some inside joke. 

"Yep." 

"How long's it been since you've been home?"

It was a question that Jason hadn't been expecting. 

"Two years." He admitted, shocked to realize just how long it had been.

"Wow. You must have missed it."

"Not really." Yes. So much more than he ever would have believed.

"No? Why not?"

Jason glared out the window at the white, featureless expanse before him. 

"...Well." Tom said, undaunted, after a few moments of tense silence had passed. "I'm sure your family will be happy you're home."

"Oh, you have no idea." Jason muttered darkly.

"Any fun plans while you're here?"

"Not really." 

"Yeah, probably not much to do with a messed up arm, huh?" 

"Nope." 

"Figures. But seriously. Any other advice for someone who's never been to Gotham before? Anything I should know?" 

"Don't talk to strangers would be a good place to start." 

Tom snorted. "Great. Anything else?"

Jason shrugged lopsidedly. "I guess it depends on what you plan on doing."

"Mostly just tagging along with the GCPD for a couple weeks."

"...I'm sorry. You're what now?"

"Oh, see I work for TIME magazine." Tom told him, as if that explained everything. "We're dedicating an entire issue to Gotham City."

"What? Why?"

"Because as far as crime and violence go? You guys are the statistical equivalent of Afghanistan." 

"Yeah, dude, I'm aware. Believe me, I don't need TIME magazine to remind me what a fucking nightmare it is." Jason told him. "My question is why would anyone want to read that?" 

"Beats me." Tom said with a shrug. "All I know is twenty years ago we published a piece looking at how the Batman was affecting the crime rate in the city and it was our highest selling issue. Ever. I mean, you were probably too young to remember what it was like back then, but for the longest time, Gotham was No-Man's Land. People were terrified to go there. The government was talking about sending troops in and everything. And then out of nowhere the Batman shows up and the world becomes a whole new kind of crazy. The whole country was obsessed with him. People have been writing in and begging us to do a follow-up piece ever since."

Jason looked Tom up and down. "And they sent you?"

"No one else wanted to go. But like I said, I'd never been to Gotham before, and I figured it would be a lot more exciting than covering another debate, don't you think?" 

"Wow." Holy. Shit. It wasn't often that Jason met a dead man walking. Well. A dead man walking that he wasn't planning on killing himself, anyway. "Wow. Yeah. That's uh..." Jason paused. "Listen, man, watch your back, alright? Gotham isn't...it really isn't a great place, okay?"

"Yeah, that's what everyone keeps telling me. But I'm gonna be with the police almost the whole time, so I figure I'll probably be okay, right?"

Jason didn't have the heart to tell him that the police were just as bad, if not worse, than most of the criminals in Gotham. "Sure." Was all he said instead.

"Whew! That's a relief. You know, man, I gotta be honest with you I was really starting to worry that I was making the biggest mistake of my life here. Hey! Can you tell me-"

Jason resisted the urge to roll his eyes. This is precisely what you got for being nice to people. 

\-----

Jason could honestly say that he had never been happier to see his shithole apartment. By the time he finally managed to disable the alarms and get the door open, he could have kissed the grime and dust coated floors, nearly weeping with relief as he sank to the ground, his shoulder throbbing, ribs groaning, and feet screaming.

The last time he had hurt this much, he had been staring at a timer that was slowly counting down to zero.

Well. 

Okay, fine it wasn't even close to being that bad. But considering what he'd been through, he figured he'd earned the right to bitch a little. 

Chest heaving, Jason quickly reset his security system and then began to drag himself to his embarrassingly small bathroom. He had bled through his bandages, he knew it - he could feel the sticky warmth saturating his socks and oozing uncomfortably between his toes. God, he wasn't looking forward to this. 

Slumped against the chipped porcelain tub, Jason carefully undid the laces of his boots and gently pried them off with a groan that quickly turned into a gag. The feeling of his blistered skin being tugged and torn was one thing, but the stench of pus and rot was quite another. He had been right too - the bandages and his socks were completely soaked through, and Jason watched, disgusted, as great, milky drops collected along the frayed fibers like pearls on a string, breaking and spattering against the tile. Jason quickly unwound the sodden gauze, tossing the reeking pile aside and grabbing a fresh roll from inside his pack. 

With as much care as he could muster for himself, Jason quickly slathered the soles of his feet with antibiotic cream, wincing and trying not to look too long at his own raw and weeping flesh, and then wrapped them clumsily with one hand. It wasn't pretty. If Alfred could see the poor job he'd done, he would have lost his goddam mind. But it was the best that Jason could manage on his own...something else that Alfred would have undoubtedly scolded him for, if he knew. 

Or at least...he once would have.

How Alfred felt about him now, if at all, Jason had no idea. Jason's throat felt oddly tight at this realization, but he quickly pushed the thought away, swallowing hard. It wasn't like it really mattered anyway. Even if by some insane miracle Alfred didn't completely hate him, Jason had no intention of seeking the old butler out and asking for his help. His or any one of the other Bats' for that matter. They didn't want him. And he had made his choices. He was on his own now. And the sooner he accepted that, the better. 

Pushing himself to his aching feet, he gathered the dirty bandages and ruined socks and quickly tossed them in the wastebasket before limping out to the rest of the apartment. 

"Apartment" was putting it generously. "Efficiency" or maybe "studio" was probably the technical definition of what it was. But "shithole" was definitely the most accurate way to describe it. 

Which is precisely what made it so damn perfect, as far as Jason was concerned. It was a good front, and this deep into the Bowery, so far away from Bruce's usual patrol routes, in something that barely qualified as "livable", through an alias and funds he was almost sure couldn't be traced back to him, he doubted any of the Bats would think to look for him out here. 

Still. Jason had learned long ago not to underestimate Bruce's paranoia. Or his persistence. So, just to play it safe, he had bought a few others - decoy apartments. Nice ones, scattered across Gotham in some of the more respectable neighborhoods, purchased under names that Bruce might recognize. Hopefully, if Bruce had any reason to suspect Jason was in Gotham and went looking for him, he'd start there, and Jason would have enough time to get the hell outta dodge before Bruce would even realized that he was gone. 

With a sigh, Jason eased himself slowly down against his lumpy mattress, ignoring his protesting ribs and removing his aching shoulder from its sling, which he tossed aside with disgust. He was already really sick of wearing that stupid thing, but hopefully, if his ribs were anything to go by, the shoulder would only need a few more days before it was healed enough that he no longer needed it. 

Staring up at the water-stained ceiling, Jason pulled a packet of crumpled cigarettes from his pocket and lit one clumsily. He took a drag, staring up at his grimy ceiling through the thin haze of smoke that swirled overhead. 

Jose Desoto. The only reason he had finally come back to a city he swore he'd never set foot in again. It wasn't much, but it was all he had to go on. And if what Jason had learned was true, if Desoto truly was the link between Juarez and Gotham, and the key to finally bringing everything down, well, then what choice did he really have? 

Jason brought the cigarette to his lips again as he pondered his next move. Getting Desoto's name hadn't been easy, but he had held onto it like a lifeline, a single speck of clarity he had carried with him through those last few murky days in Mexico, when he had been so high on morphine that most of what he could remember was reduced to brief flashes of color and sound - of bright crimson spattered across crisp white, of sudden screams that echoed through the night, faint whispers of prayer, the words so tumbling and rushed like the beat of a racing heart that Jason hadn't been able to pick them out. And when the haze had finally lifted, when Jason had realized for the first time just what he needed to do...he hadn't wanted to go. But he knew he had to. He had to make things right. Even if it meant facing the Bat again. 

Or worse...

Jason jolted as his cellphone suddenly rang, shattering the heavy silence that had settled over him. Snatching it quickly from his pocket, Jason hesitated when he saw the number that flashed across the screen, and after a few moments of deliberating, he reluctantly took the call. 

"Hey." 

"...Jay?! Jason, you there?!"

"Yeah, I'm here." 

"Are you fucking kidding me right now, Jason?! What the hell is wrong with you?!"

"Could you be more specific, please?" Jason muttered, rubbing his eyes. 

"You told us that you would call the second you reached Gotham! You promised! We should have heard from you hours ago, you fucking bastard! Do you have any idea how worried we've been?! What were we supposed to think, huh? After everything that happened - we had no idea if the cartel caught up with you, or you were in the hospital, or if you got yourself arrested, or if you lied to us and got on another plane, or if the plane went down and you were dead-"

"If the plane went down, I'm pretty sure you would have seen something on the news." Jason told her dully. 

"That's not funny!" 

"It's a little funny." 

"No, it's not! What the hell, Jay?!" 

"Jesus. Relax, Maria, I'm fine." 

"Where are you right now?" 

"At my apartment."

"He's at his apartment." Maria's voice was softer, like she was calling over her shoulder. No doubt telling the others where he was, assuring them that he was okay. He could picture them gathered around Maria in her tiny apartment as she cradled the phone to her ear, pushing her long dark hair impatiently out of her stony eyes, waving her hands for quiet. "How are you?" Maria asked suddenly, her voice now louder and clearer. She sounded nervous. "How's your shoulder? And your feet?"

"Fine." 

"You wouldn't lie to me?" 

"Wouldn't dream of it." 

"Bullshit." 

There was a brief, awkward pause, and then he heard Maria sigh heavily. "Look, Jay, you've gotta be straight with me here, okay? I'm...we're all really worried about you, you know? After everything that happened, you can't just..." She heaved another shaky breath. "Are you sure you're okay?" 

"...Yeah, Maria, I'm good." It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't exactly the truth either. 

"Okay." Maria said, and Jason could tell she didn't believe him. "Okay. Good." 

They fell into another uncomfortable, awkward silence after that, which Jason waited for Maria to break. There was something else Maria wanted to say, he could feel it. Something she wanted, or needed, to say. Something Jason wasn't gonna want to hear. 

"Listen, Jay," Maria blurted suddenly, and Jason stiffened at her tone. "No one blames you for what happened, alright? Everyone knows it wasn't your fault-" 

Click. 

Jason threw his phone across the room, listening to it bounce off the wall and then skid to a halt across the floor, swallowing hard against the bile that was pushing its way up his throat, and willing his wildly hammering heart to slow. 

It absolutely was his fault. And there was nothing that Maria could ever say to convince him otherwise. Biting back a scream, Jason shifted slightly, ignoring the sharp twinge in his shoulder, and brought his hand up to cover face with a sigh. 

He didn't want any of her excuses for him. Not now, not ever. He wanted her to just admit that this was on him, and there was nothing he could ever do to fix it. He wanted her disgust, her fury, her hatred and rejection...

...But more than anything, he just wanted to forget.


	3. November 9, 2:10 AM

The GCPD is an absolute madhouse when they arrive. Tom can honestly say he's never seen anything like it. 

"JOHNSON! WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO WITH THE RUSSO MURDER FILE?!"

"-LET ME GO YOU FUCKING BASTARDS! YOU CAN'T HOLD ME IN HERE - I KNOW MY RIGHTS!-"

"-ARMED ROBBERY IN THE FASHION DISTRICT-!" 

"-HEY! HEY! WHERE'S MY FUCKING PHONE CALL?!-"

"-MOTHERFUCKER-!"

"-ALL AVAILABLE UNITS NEEDED TO ROBINSON PARK-!"

"-I AIN'T DONE NOTHING-!" 

"-PIECE OF SHIT-!"

"-I HAVE RIGHTS-!"

"-OH, THAT'S IT, YOU SON-OF-A-BITCH-!"

"Copeland." Gordon said calmly, seemingly not the least bit fazed when a trio of officers suddenly tackle a handcuffed, bucking suspect to the ground. "Hurry up and get those women booked." 

"Yes, Sir." 

Copeland gently pulled the two women forward, and they go with him willingly, though unsteadily, soon disappearing into the crowd. Uniformed officers, plainclothes detectives, murderers coated in fresh blood are being dragged from one end of the hall to the other, addicts are moaning and writhing as they ride out their highs, hustlers and prostitutes are lounging against the bars of the holding cells, and all manner of everything else in between are moving about at dizzying speeds, shouting to one another across the precinct like stockbrokers. Phones are ringing, radios chirping, computer keys clacking. And no one so much as spares them a glance as Gordon leads them through it. Beside him, Schreiner sighs .

"I'm telling you, we're wasting our time-"

"Schreiner." Gordon barked, looking back over his shoulder and fixing him with a glare. "The only kind of commentary I want from you is your report. I suggest you get it started."

"Sure thing, Boss." Schreiner said, rolling his eyes behind Gordon's back as he turned away. "Hey, be sure to say hi to the Bat for me. Newsweek, come with me." 

Tom didn't dare look back at the Commissioner, uncomfortable and embarrassed by Detective Schreiner's blatant insubordination. In truth, he would have much rather preferred to shadow Gordon to the roof for the chance to see the legendary Batman himself, but given how much Tom knew Gordon was going out of his way to accommodate him, asking seemed out of the question. Ungrateful, even. So instead, he trailed quickly after Schreiner, following him down the harshly-lit, utilitarian halls. 

"Is he really going to call the Batman?" Tom asked him after a few moments of awkward silence passed. "With the spot-light?"

"Not like the bastard has a phone." Schreiner grumbled, ducking quickly into the break room. "Batman, I mean, not Gordon."

"And he always comes?" Tom asked, deciding to ignore Schreiner's little jab at the Commissioner for now. "No matter what, he comes?"

"Just as long as it's Gordon who calls him, he usually does. Otherwise, all bets are off." 

"He only answers if it's Gordon?" Tom asked, surprised. He had been under the impression that the Bat worked with the entirety of the GCPD. 

"Almost exclusively." Schreiner confirmed, grabbing the coffee pot and pouring himself a cup. "You want some?"

"Oh, no thank you." Tom said, dropping down to the little table that was shoved against the back wall and pulling out a notepad from his jacket pocket. "So why does he only answer Gordon? Is it because he's the Commissioner?" 

Schreiner snorted. "Please. The Bat doesn't give two shits about rank and file. All he cares about is whether or not he can trust you. Doesn't matter if you're the chief of police, the Mayor, or the goddam Pope. If you're dirty, he'd sooner put you behind bars than work with you."

"Well, that's how it should be." Tom said, glancing up at him. "Shouldn't it?"

Schreiner considered him for a minute, his mouth twisted in a slight, cruel smirk. "Sure, Newsweek."

"What, you don't agree?"

"In a perfect world I would. Then again in a perfect world, we wouldn't even need the fucking Bats, now would we?" 

"I guess." Tom allowed. "...But we don't live in a perfect world."

"Ain't that the truth." Schreiner muttered. He pulled a small, silver flask from the inside his coat and poured its contents into his coffee. "World's gone so far to hell that we're actually relying an army of masked lunatics to bail us out." 

"Forgive me if I'm wrong, but you don't seem all that appreciative of the man who's dedicated over twenty years of his life to cleaning up this city." Tom said. Schreiner's attitude was really starting to irritate him. 

"You realize that he is doing so illegally, right?" Schreiner asked him, cocking an eyebrow at him. "What with the whole vigilante thing?" 

"I mean...okay, yeah, sure, maybe he's doing something that he technically shouldn't be doing, but it's for a good cause, isn't it? Like, that counts for something, right? He's just trying to help you guys. And thanks to Batman, Gotham's a much safer place now-"

Schreiner choked on his coffee, spilling half his mug on himself. "You know," He wheezed, grabbing a couple napkins and dabbing his shirt. "If there's one thing I can always count on, it's how badly journalists fuck up statistics." He coughed, tossing the wet ball of napkins aside and fixing Tom with a glare. "Just what the hell makes you think Gotham's any better today than it was twenty years ago?" 

"Well." Tom said slowly, feeling as though he were walking into a trap. "Because it is! Just look at how many people are currently serving at Blackgate! Compared to the even ten years ago, the numbers are down by 30 percent-"

"There are 'fewer' prisoners serving at Blackgate today because twenty years ago, the mentally ill and criminal shitheads were all lumped together under one roof." Schreiner interrupted him. "Batman was the one who advocated for the crazies to be moved to Arkham Asylum rather than be housed at Blackgate. The people didn't actually go away. We just shuffled them around a bit."

"But that's still a good thing, isn't it?" Tom pushed "I mean, those people are now getting the care that they need. It's an improvement."

"Jesus, you're missing the point. Twenty years ago, 50 percent of the Blackgate population was insane. The other 50 percent were just grade A society shitstains who knew exactly what they were doing when they were convicted. Batman was able to successfully move the mentally ill to Arkham. Do you see what I'm saying? The Blackgate population should have dropped by 50 percent and stayed there, if the crime rate in Gotham remained static. But you're reporting it's only dropped by 30. Why? Because there are in fact more criminals - sane criminals - in Blackgate now than there were twenty years ago. The numbers haven't gone down, Tom, they've gone up. Which means crime has gone up too." 

"But-"

"Or take for instance, the patients at Arkham. Twenty years ago, when the hospital first opened, there were roughly 250 people being treated for some kind of debilitating, mental illness. People who were a danger to themselves or society. People who couldn't be treated with a quick dose of lithium and sent on their way. Of that number, about 50 had been involved in some kind of crime. Today, Arkham houses 350 patients. Of those? About 150 have been convicted of something. So not only do we have more sane criminals, but the insane ones have gone up as well. Check your math. That doesn't look like progress to me." 

"...Okay." Tom conceded, frustrated, checking his notes. "Okay, so maybe the numbers are up. But couldn't you argue that there are more convicted criminals because the crime clearance rate is higher than it's ever been? Last year, the homicide division alone reported a clearance rate of 89 percent. Compared to the rest of the country at 64 percent-"

"We cleared 89 percent of all murder cases with Batman's help, yes." Schreiner agreed. "Who, again, is committing a crime in doing so. Kinda defeats the purpose, wouldn't you say?" 

"But what does it matter how it gets done?" Tom snapped, tossing his notepad aside. "Just as long as you get the bad people off the streets and keep the good people safe, what do you care if he helps you out?" 

"Funny. I don't remember asking for his help." Schreiner said coolly.

Tom could only sit there, silent and stunned, as something slowly began to dawn on him. "Do you...do you not like the Batman?"

Schreiner released a long, slow breath from his nose, and then leaned forward over the little table. "Newsweek, I'm gonna let you in on a little departmental secret. No one does."

"...But...why?" Tom asked. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. It defied all understanding and logic that someone could be so opposed to help, especially when it was so obviously needed.

Schreiner sat back, face impassive and blank as he regarded Tom. "I'll bet you've heard stories for as long as you can remember about Gotham, haven't you." He said eventually. "About all the bad things that happen here. And all the bad people who do those bad things. I'll bet you always wondered which stories were true and which ones weren't. Well, let me assure you, Newsweek, they're all true. Every. Last. One. Gotham really is as bad as people think it is. And there are people here, people under this very roof even, who are so much worse than what any of the stories say. Dangerous people. Powerful people. People who do things everyday that you couldn't even dream up in your worst nightmares. People who, for all intents and purposes, own this city. Or at least...they used to. You think they appreciate the Bat? 'Cause I know they don't. Especially, when you consider the fact that Batman is breaking the law, just the same as they are, and is actually celebrated for it?" Schreiner snorted again. "And as for the good guys, well, the hypocrisy's just a little bit too much to swallow most days. Having the city you've sworn to protect write you off as incompetent and corrupt and spit on you for doing the best you can in a system that's designed to fail. Only for the Bat, who is, again, breaking the law and adored for it. So no. There's a lot of people in Gotham who really, really don't like the Bats."

"But some people do." Tom argued. "Gordon does."

"He didn't always." Schreiner said, smirking at him. "Believe it or not, Newsweek, but there was time when Batman was the most wanted man in Gotham thanks to Gordon."

Tom remembered, vaguely, the great debate that Batman had sparked when he'd first appeared so many years ago. There were some who called him a hero. But there were just as many, if not more, politicians, city officials, and policemen mostly, who said otherwise. "So what changed?"

Schreiner thought for a moment, and Tom was surprised when he answered seriously. "I guess Gordon just got tired of fighting everyone. He was the one who cleaned up the GCPD, you know. Almost single-handedly. Made himself a lot of enemies doing it too. Cops and criminals alike." Schreiner tapped his fingers on the table. "Maybe Gordon realized it was better to have one friend, one ally in this, than to take on the whole world by himself. Even if that friend is as much a law-breaking nutcase as half the people in Arkham." He muttered under his breath.

"And there's seriously no one else in the entire GCPD who feels the same way?" Tom asked doubtfully. "No one else in Gotham who wants to help make this city better?" 

Schreiner shrugged. "There's maybe a handful of good cops in the GCPD. A few decent people still out there. But here's the thing you gotta understand about Gotham, Newsweek: no one really cares. Some of America's wealthiest families live here. They've got more money than they know what to do with, but if it didn't make them look good, they wouldn't give this city a dime. And as for the few good men we've got? They may know the difference between right and wrong but that doesn't mean they've got the balls or initiative to actually do the right thing. Hell, if they didn't have Gordon screaming at them all the damn time, then most of them wouldn't bother putting even half the criminals away. They'd look the other way, cut some kind of deal, write it off as a lost cause. That's why Gordon won't ever retire - 'cause the second he does, things will just go right back to the way it was before and the Bats will be on their own. And God only knows how long that can last."

"Seems to me then that the Bats are doing some good." Tom said quietly, fiddling with his pen. "And that the people you hate so much just might be the only good people in all of Gotham who really do care." 

"Yeah. Congrats to them, the fingers in the proverbial dyke." 

"And you still think they're a bad thing?"

"I'm just a realist, Tom. We've got one good, but pain-in-the-ass, Commissioner teamed up with a handful of crime-fighting vigilante loons who are barely holding the city together as it is. It can't last forever. Gotham City's just a time bomb. Tick-tick-ticking away. And when it finally goes off, I think the aftermath that follows is gonna be so much worse than if we had just let things be." 

Tom stared at him, stunned that such a belief could even exist in a place that what already as miserable and hopeless as Gotham, but before he could say anything else, Officer Copeland suddenly came in. 

"Okay." He called, striding into the break room and grabbing himself a cup of coffee. "Whores are booked."

"They have anything to say?"

"Not a damn thing." Copeland sighed, sinking into the last empty chair at the table. "Too wired. Give 'em enough time to sober up though, and maybe they'll be more helpful. Hell of a lot less belligerent, too, if we're lucky." 

"Awesome. Only witnesses we've got and they're high as fucking kites. Not exactly what I would call 'reliable'. This case is off to a great start."

"Ah, what do you care, Schreiner? Not like you're gonna have to solve it anyway. Gordon's passing it off to the Bat as we speak."

"Hmmph. Thanks for reminding me. Listen, I need to get some work done. Do me a favor and keep an eye on Newsweek, will ya?"

"Sure thing." Copeland said from around the rim of his cup as Schreiner picked up his coffee and sauntered self-assuredly out the door.

"He's a gem, isn't he?" Tom muttered only after he could no longer hear Schreiner's footsteps echoing down the hall. 

"Eh. Probably just tired. He's been working for almost twenty-four hours straight, you know."

'So have I.' Tom thought. 'And I'm pretty sure I haven't turned into a complete dick just yet.' 

"Is that normal? For you guys to work that much?" He asked instead.

"Not us uniforms." Copeland told him. "But the detectives can work as many hours of overtime as they want. Depends on how committed they are to the case."

"Hmm. So, uh...is Detective Schreiner usually committed to his cases?"

Copeland regarded him for a moment, his expression guarded. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, apparently the vast majority the GCPD are more interested in protecting and serving their own interests rather than the people of Gotham." Tom said bitterly. "And it just seems to me like Schreiner...might be one of them." 

"You realize I might also be one of those corrupt cops, right?"

"Hey, man, I'd kill for the chance to interview a corrupt cop." Tom told him. "I'm just trying to write a story here - no judgment from me if you are."

Copeland didn't answer. Instead, his eyes flickered to the little notepad in Tom's hands. "I won't quote you on this, I swear." Tom promised quickly. "It's just...Gotham really isn't what I was expecting, you know? Well. I mean it it, but it's a lot more complicated that I thought it'd be. I'm just...trying to understand it better. Get an insider's perspective. So whatever you can tell me, I'd appreciate it."

Copeland hesitated for a few more seconds, and then, very reluctantly, began to speak. "The people who enjoy this job - and I mean really, really enjoy it - they're the ones who are here for all the wrong reasons. They're the ones you gotta watch out for. I don't think Schreiner's a bad guy. I think he's just an asshole and a bully and the badge means he gets paid to be one. He's definitely not the worst one out there." There was a brief pause. "But to be honest, you never really know with this place. I don't think Schreiner's dirty. But if I found out tomorrow that he was, I don't think I'd be surprised." 

"What about you? Do you like it?"

Copeland shrugged. "It's a job. Pays the bills." 

"So, that's a no." 

Copeland scoffed, shaking his head. "No, man. I hate this job."

"If you hate it so bad, then why do you do it?"

"Someone's got to."

"Sure, but why you?" 

Copeland was silent for a moment. "There's so much evil in this world. So much bad shit you wouldn't believe. And most people don't realize just how bad it is...I hadn't planned on being a cop, you know. Just needed a job. I saw that they were hiring in the paper. Applied. Next thing I know it's today. If people knew half the things I've seen, no one would ever even think of becoming a cop." 

"Like what?" Tom asked him quietly, a little afraid to know the answer. 

Copeland was quiet for a long time, staring at a spot on the table with a faraway look in his eyes. "Like babies who burned to death in house fires. Just 'cause their mothers dumped their piece-of-shit boyfriends and they wanted to hurt her back in the worst way they could think of." He murmured. "Or moms selling their kids so they could get a fix. Women who were raped and tortured for days before they were finally killed. Their bodies dumped under bridges. Their insides now their outsides. Having to tell mothers and fathers that their kid's not ever coming home." 

He paused again. "Six months into the job." He said. "This guy I graduated with, friend of mine - Nick - got himself shot trying to stop a robbery. He was the first one on the scene, and we were just a few minutes behind him. Told him to wait for back-up, but if he waited, the guy was gonna get away, so..." Copeland let out a long sigh. "Son-of-a-bitch shot him. Three times. Right in the face. And I pulled up just a few minutes later to find my buddy with half his face blown off and bleeding out. Everyone was so sure he wasn't gonna make it. They had to amputate his jaw. His eye. Extensive brain damage. Doctors said that even if he did manage to pull through, he'd never walk or talk again." 

Tom listened, feeling sick, as Copeland continued, "Have you ever thought something and just hated yourself for even thinking it? Even though you knew it was true? I can still remember his mom saying he was gonna make it. Going on and on about what a miracle it was. Thanking God and Jesus and every nurse and doctor and janitor that came through his room. And I remember thinking when she said it that it would have been better if they had just let him die." Copeland shook his head. "Hated myself for it ever since." 

Tom swallowed. "You shouldn't feel bad for that. We've all thought awful things before."

"Yeah, well. Still doesn't make it any easier." Was all Copeland said. He pushed his mug away. "Like I said before - heavy stuff, this job. Once you see things like that, it's not exactly something you can just walk away from." 

"Yeah." Tom agreed weakly, scrambling for something to say. "Schreiner says Gordon won't ever walk away."

"No, he probably won't." Copeland agreed, chuckling. 

"Schreiner doesn't like the Commissioner very much, does he?"

"Oh, you've noticed?" Copeland asked sarcastically, chuckling at Tom's obvious discomfort. "Don't worry, the feeling's mutual." 

"But why?"

"Gordon expects a lot from the GCPD, especially now that he's Commissioner. Holds us all to very high standards. To the point of being unreasonable, at times. It can make the job a hellavuh lot harder than it already is. And Schreiner, well, let's just say he has absolutely no problem bending the rules as much as he can, if the end justifies the means. He's done a lot of really questionable stuff over the years. Stuff that's bordered on being downright illegal, at times." He paused. "Schreiner may not like the fact that Gordon gives the Bat a free pass, but at least no one would ever say he doesn't know where the line is." 

"Guess that makes sense."

"He say anything else?" 

"He says everyone in Gotham hates the Bats."

Copeland snorted. "A lot of people do, yeah. But no, not everyone hates them. In fact, a lot of people are grateful for them."

"And what do you think about them?"

Copeland considered his question for a moment. "I think they just want to help. And in this city? I think someone like Batman was inevitable. God knows the GCPD was never going to be enough to fix things. And if he hadn't shown up when he did, I think Gotham would have burned itself to the ground a long time ago."

"...But?" 

"But," Copeland sighed. "I'm not so sure he's the answer either." 

"Why?" Tom pushed. He couldn't understand why so many people were so opposed to the Bats, despite everything they'd done. "He's have done a lot of good-"

"Yeah, he has. The Bats have done more good than we ever could. But...I don't know, man. I mean, where does it all end? They aren't a solution, they're just duct tape: we can't rely on them forever. And they can't keep doing this forever."

"Maybe they can. You're the one who said that you can't just walk away from this life. Maybe they can't either."

"They're civilians." Copeland insisted stubbornly. "We shouldn't expect them to make that kind of sacrifice. Jesus Christ, Tom, two of the kids have died already-" 

Tom felt something ice cold slip into his stomach. "Wait. What?"

"Well." Copeland shrugged. "We think so, anyway. No one knows for sure."

"But...who...?"

"The second Robin." Copeland explained gently. "And the first Batgirl. No one's seen them in ages. It's like they just...disappeared. And to be fair, we don't know for sure what happened. A lot of people think they quit. Got out while they still could...but like I said, you don't just walk away from this life. And the Bat? He...he changed after Robin left. Hasn't been the same ever since." 

"Kids might have...died...doing this?"

Copeland gave him a pointed look. "Wouldn't be the most unusual thing to happen in this line of work, would it?"

Something occurred to Tom right then, and he could have kicked himself for not thinking of it sooner. "Hang on...where is he even getting these kids from?"

"You're asking the wrong guy, man. No one knows. No one knows who the Bats are or where they came from, or why they do what they do." 

"You guys honestly have no idea? None at all?"

"I mean. Everybody's got their theories, but no one really knows for sure. Not even Gordon." Copeland thought for a moment. "But I'm sure that if he wanted to, he could probably figure out. Hell, he's probably the only one that could." 

"Look, no offense, but...how hard can it really be?" Tom asked him. "I mean. There's only so many people who could fit the bill, right?" 

"Trust me, Tom, this thing is way more complicated than you think it is. The kind of work the Bats do? That takes manpower. Money. Expertise. And the Bats? They're just the surface. I guarantee you there's a lot more people involved in this than just them. A whole network of people. Think about it. You need someone to fund it. You need someone to either provide or build all the equipment and tech. Repair it when it breaks. You need someone to train the new recruits. And what about medical care? Who do you think's providing that? It ain't Gotham General - believe me, we've checked." Copeland shook his head. "No, man. This is so much bigger than a guy in a bat mask and a bunch of kids doing backflips off rooftops." 

"Jesus." Tom whispered, mind reeling. There was so much about this whole thing he had never considered before. The possibility that not everyone saw the Batman as their savior. The fact that there were people, people who were supposed to be on the same side, who actually hated him. The fact that there were two kids who may have died in the line of self-appointed duty. And...quite frankly, literally everything else that was involved...

"Yeah." Copeland agreed. For a moment it looked like he was going to say something else, but then the sound of approaching footsteps made him pause, and he looked over his shoulder toward the door. A moment later, Commissioner Gordon came in. Copeland nodded toward him.

"You get a hold of him, Commissioner?" He asked.

"I did. Explained what we think's going on. He said he'd look into it." 

"Well, that's good, isn't it?" Tom asked, glancing back and forth between the two, who for some reason looked quite grim. "He's gonna help you guys catch this Red Hood person?"

"If it even is him." Gordon said with a sigh. "We don't exactly have much to go on."

"And if it is?" 

Gordon just shook his head. "Considering what happened last time? I don't even want to think about it. For all we know, we could be on the brink of another all-out war and not even realize it." 

"Well, if that's the case, then it looks like you showed up at just the right time." Copeland said, turning back to Tom with a grin. "Talk about a story." 

"Yes, exactly what we need." Gordon said tartly. "'Notorious Crime Lord Wreaks Havoc on Gotham City for a Second Time While GCPD Flounder' on the cover of the world's most famous magazine. Just perfect."

"Well, you don't know for sure it's him." Tom said, trying to be diplomatic. "It could just be a random killing."

"For everyone's sake, I hope it is." Gordon said grimly. "Speaking of, did you get anything out of the girls we brought in?" He asked, turning to Copeland.

"Nothing yet. But I can try again." Copeland told him, rising to his feet.

"They in the holding cell or interrogation room?"

"Cell. Figured it might motivate them better." 

"Alright." Gordon nodded. "Let me know if they have anything to say. They might be the only hope we have of ever knowing what actually happened."

Tom trotted after Copeland down the hall, but he waited until they were out of earshot of the Commissioner before he asked. "So this Red Hood guy. You really think it's him?"

"God, I hope not." Copeland called back to him over the rising clamor of the GCPD. "Guy singlehandedly took over Crime Alley in a matter of days. Killed more crime bosses in that time than we've managed to put away in years. And the Bat may have been the only one who was able to take him on without being immediately slaughtered, but he didn't exactly manage to take him down, either. So if it is him, who's gonna be the one to stop him? It won't be us, I can tell you that much."

They came abruptly to a stop before the holding cells. 

"HEY! HEY! WHERE'S MY FUCKING PHONE CALL-?!"

"-BEEN SITTING HERE FOR HOURS, YOU CAN'T KEEP ME HERE ALL NIGHT-!"

"-I TOLD YOU, I AIN'T DONE NOTHING-!"

Tom cringed away from the screaming horde that had pressed themselves against the bars of the cells, their hands reaching uselessly for them, spitting and cursing at them, but Copeland ignored them, striding toward the end of the row as though he was unaware of anything even remotely amiss. 

"Doing okay, Nora?" Copeland said, pausing at the end of the row. "Can I get you anything?"

"You can get me my fucking phone call, you bastard." The woman, Nora, who Tom recognized as one of the prostitutes they had brought in, snarled. 

She was a woman who easily looked ten years older than she really was, her body woefully thin and pale and clad only in an ugly, sequined mini skirt, despite the November chill. Her hair was unnaturally blond, and stringy, her makeup was smudged, and her eyes were somewhat glazed and unfocused. Her friend was sleeping on the bench beside her. "I'm supposed to get a phone call."

"Yes, ma'am, you are. I apologize. We're a little busy tonight, as you can see." Copeland told her, gesturing at the general chaos of the GCPD around them. "But I promise you that we'll get you your phone call as soon as we can."

"That's bullshit and you know it." She spat, turning away. Copeland sighed.

"Alright." He said. "Well, I'll send someone to get you your phone call as soon as they can. In the meantime, if there's anything you would like to discuss, just let us know."

He motioned for Tom to follow him, and Tom quickly scrambled after him, more than happy to get as far away from the holding cells and the people inside as possible. It wasn't until they were nearly across the room that Nora spoke again. 

"Hey." She called suddenly after them. "Did you ever find that kid?"

Copeland stopped. "What kid?" He asked, staring at Nora, who swayed unsteadily, gripping the bars of the cell tightly in her bony hands. 

"The fuccckkkiiinngg kid." She said, enunciating each word carefully, sounding annoyed. "The one who was at the crime scene."

"...What?" Copeland barked, moving quickly back toward the cell. "There was no kid at the crime scene."

"Well, duh. He got out quick. He came running out of that alley like a fucking bat outta hell. Took off down the street right when the gun went off. Did you find him or not?"

Tom didn't know if Nora was still too high to realize the full implication of what she'd just said or if she simply didn't care, but it obviously wasn't lost on Copeland, who stood rooted to the spot with shock, open-mouthed and staring. 

"Did you get a good look at him?" Copeland eventually asked, voice faint. Nora shrugged. 

"I guess. Why?"

"Could you describe him to a sketch artist?"

\--------

"...We have reason to believe that the Red Hood has returned to Gotham..." 

Gordon's words seemed to echo in the cold and empty night, leaving Bruce feeling breathless and all but paralyzed where he stood on the roof of the GCPD, barely hearing to a word as Gordon continued to recount the details of a murder that had taken place only a few hours before in Crime Alley. They didn't matter. Nothing else he said mattered. The only thing that really mattered was that he suspected that the Red hood had come back to Gotham.

That Jason had come back.

His son had finally come back.

Bruce didn't know if there was a word for what he was feeling at that moment, but he had felt it before - the first time Jason had come back, and Bruce had finally realized just who was under the red hood. He had been confused, at first. Terrified. Angry. It had been impossible. There was no way the man behind the mask could possibly be his son. His son was dead. He had refused to believe it. It had to have been a trick. It had happened before, after all. 

But upon realizing the truth...

He had felt hope.

Raw, powerful, all-consuming, desperate hope. 

Joy. 

There had been a moment, a brief moment, when Bruce had believed that Jason would come back to him. That the whole thing had been a misunderstanding, and that if Bruce could just explain to Jason what had happened...then he could fix it...that he'd finally have his boy again...

But after Jason had taken the Joker and had demanded that Bruce kill him, that he prove to Jason that he hadn't chosen the Joker over him...that Bruce avenge him...that Bruce prove that he loved him...It was only then that Bruce had realized that he couldn't give Jason the one thing he wanted, maybe even needed, and it was after that he knew things with Jason would never be the same. There would be no reconciliation. That Jason wouldn't be coming home with him that night. Or any night. That he would lose Jason for a second time. That he would never have his son back...

Though the GCPD never recovered Jason's body from the rubble, most had written him off as dead. And while Bruce had suspected for a long time that Jason had somehow survived their fight, and had gotten away, he couldn't bring himself to look for him. The pain of finding out otherwise had simply been too much to bear... 

It wasn't until almost six months later, when Jason surfaced in Laos, that Bruce finally knew for sure. And when he did, Bruce began to believe again, despite everything that had happened, despite all evidence to the contrary, that things with Jason were not beyond repair. That he could still get him back. 

It was a belief born not so much from logic, but from that tiny, infuriatingly resilient shard of hope that never quite refused to die. 

But he never said anything. Not to Gordon. Or the JLA. Or to Dick, or Tim, or the girls, or even Alfred. He didn't want to hear them tell him that he was being irrational. That he was compromised. That he wasn't thinking clearly. That his son was a murderer who belonged in Arkham beside the same man who had taken him from Bruce already once before. He simply couldn't bear to hear it. Couldn't bear to hear them demand he act. That he do what he knew had to be done...

...That he be the one to put his son away. That he be the reason he would never see Jason again...

Instead, he had kept quiet, watching from afar as Jason traced out a jagged path across southeast Asia, over what Bruce would later realize was the Golden Triangle. For the better part of a year, he followed dozens of newspaper articles and police reports detailing Jason's various, and often explosive, encounters with the drug lords and traffickers of the region, before he suddenly vanished again. And thankfully, it wasn't long before Jason eventually reappeared in South America a few weeks later. As far as Bruce had known, he'd been slowly working his way up the Mexican coast, wreaking havoc wherever he could. To hear that he might be back, so unexpectedly and after all this time...

"I'll look into it." He heard himself say, as though from a great distance. "Don't worry."

He was vaguely aware that Gordon was still talking as he turned away, but he couldn't bring himself to even try and focus on what he was saying. Whatever else there was to say really didn't matter.

All that mattered was that Jason might be back. 

Bruce fired a grappling hook. 

But why would he come back? Surely not just to murder a single, small-time drug dealer in some back alley in the middle of the night. Surely there was something else he would have wanted. Something else he was planning...

The wind was roaring in his ears. His heart was pounding in his chest.

Bruce was angry. He was terrified. He was confused. But more than anything he was devastated.

There was a chance he was going to have to go after his son. 

Again. 

The moon hung low over the Gotham skyline. The city lights whirled wildly below him. 

Bruce shook his head. He had to be objective about this. As much as it agonized him to even think so, he couldn't afford to think of Jason as his son right now. Jason had proven himself more than simply dangerous before. He was calculating. Deadly. Someone who was more than capable of drowning the streets of Gotham in blood. And the slightest hesitation could mean the difference between life and death for so many people. He couldn't afford to think of him as anything less than that. He couldn't afford to underestimate him again. Couldn't afford to let his own naïve hope get the best of him. But as much as Bruce knew that, a part of him couldn't help but hope...

Jason was back. 

His son was back.


	4. November 9, 3:41 AM

Despite the fact that what Nora claimed to have witnessed in the brief moments before Jose Desoto was murdered completely changed everything the GCPD knew about a case that had been, only a few hours before, written off as a cold case destined to spend eternity gathering dust in the archives, the earliest they could arrange for the sketch artist to come downtown wouldn't be until nine. And despite the fact that time was of the essence, and a valuable piece of information was slipping further and further away from them with each passing second, Commissioner Gordon had been adamant that Nora needed to be stone-cold sober when she gave her official testament. 

"Nothing else to do now but wait." Schreiner told Tom with a shrug. "Might as well go home and get some shut-eye while you can."

"Honestly, Sir, I wouldn't mind staying here until then-"

"Newsweek." Schreiner interrupted dully. "That wasn't a suggestion. That was me trying to be polite. You want to hear what the whore has to say, then be back here at nine. Until then, get the fuck out of this house." 

Tom glanced quickly over at Copeland, hoping he'd be able to pull some strings and convince Schreiner to let him stay, but he merely shrugged helplessly back. Sighing, Tom gathered up his notes and his coat, knowing that the next few hours would be both unbearably long and hopelessly devoid of sleep. 

"Do you know any places that are still open where I can get a coffee?" Tom asked Copeland as he pulled on his coat. Copeland raised his eyebrows at him.

"You seriously want to get a coffee right now?" He asked him incredulously. "It's four in the morning."

"There's no way I'm gonna be able to sleep tonight after everything that's happened." 

"Suicide, man." Copeland says, shaking his head. "You're coming back at nine for another full day." 

"I'll be fine." Tom assured him. "Come on, Jake, it's my first time in Gotham - help me out here. Where's somewhere only the locals know about?"

"Your funeral." Copeland sighed. "But if you've got your heart set on it, try Pauli's Diner on Fifth. It's not far from here. You could probably walk." He gave Tom a look. "But I wouldn't." 

Tom takes Copeland's advice (though denying himself the chance to walk the legendary streets of Gotham so late at night feels like a betrayal to his very soul) and manages to hail a cab despite the early hour, taking it the few short blocks to Pauli's Diner. Though the neon sign that assures the world that yes, Pauli's is open for business at this ungodly hour, Tom still half expects to find the door locked tight when he pushes hesitatingly against it. But instead, it swings easily open, and a bell chimes overhead. He's even more surprised to find the diner isn't completely empty like he'd thought it'd be - at one booth, he sees a young woman surrounded by piles of open textbooks and pages of notes, typing furiously at her laptop between sips of coffee. Not far from her, an old gentleman in suspenders is pouring carefully over the newspaper he's got spread out over the table, chewing thoughtfully on his eggs and sausages as he reads. And in the back corner, Tom can just make out a man whose face is hidden behind the pages of a thick and tattered book, a cigarette dangling lazily from his fingertips as he reads. From behind the counter, a rail thin woman waves him in. 

"Come on in, doll," She says, her voice a startlingly rough rasp of a chain-smoker's. "Sit yourself wherever you like - I'll be wit'cha in just a minute." 

Tom hesitates for just a moment longer, glancing around one more time before he moves to one of the open booths. But just as he's about to sit down, the man at the far corner table lowers his book just enough to take a drag from his cigarette, and Tom catches a glimpse of his face. And for the third time since he's arrived at Pauli's, he finds himself pleasantly surprised.

"Oliver?" Tom calls out. 

Oliver stiffens ever-so-slightly in response, then very slowly and deliberately lowers his book even further, and he looks over at Tom. For a brief moment, he looks confused, and Tom can tell that Oliver recognizes him, but he's struggling to remember how he knows him. Tom grins at him and begins to make his way over, and it's only then that Oliver's confusion evaporates and is replaced just as quickly with a look of resigned dismay as he lowers his book even further, eyes rolling heavenward as Tom approaches. 

"Oh, you gotta be kidding me." Tom thinks he hears him mutter under his breath. 

"Hey!" He says cheerfully, quickly sitting down on the bench opposite Oliver. "Man, talk about coincidence! It's good to see you! What are you doing here?"

"Well, I was enjoying myself." Oliver informs him flatly. 

"Yeah, but why are you here? It's four in the morning."

"Jet lag." Oliver informs him, spitting sarcasm, as though his answer is the most ridiculous thing he could think of to say. Which Tom doesn't quite understand, because, considering that Oliver has just gotten back from Mexico, it would make perfect sense that he hasn't quite adjusted to the time change yet. But Oliver doesn't give him the chance to puzzle over this for too long. "Why are you here?"

"Oh, I just got done working a nineteen hour shift with the GCPD." Tom tells him proudly, a small, smug smile tugging at his lips.

"You'd have my sympathy, but I seem to remember you volunteering for that."

"Oh, I'm not complaining about it!" Tom reassures him quickly, grinning widely now. "Not at all - you wouldn't believe the stuff I've seen today!" 

"Doubt it." Oliver grunts.

"Dude, I just came from a murder scene!" Tom tells him, certain that will get Oliver's attention. "With a dead body and everything!" 

"Wow, a dead body in Gotham." Oliver says dryly, picking up his book again. "You sure as hell don't see that every day." 

"Yeah, but this one's different." Tom shoots back conspiringly, desperate to impress him now. "Get this: the GCPD say this guy was murdered by the Red Hood."

Oliver's eyes flicker back to Tom, and it's only when he finds himself pinned under the weight of his startlingly sharp gaze that he realizes he probably shouldn't have said that. "What?"

Tom winces. "Nothing. Forget I said that."

"The cops are saying the Red Hood's back in Gotham?" Oliver says slowly. 

"Well, they don't know for sure." Tom assures him quickly. "They don't have any actual evidence or anything. They just suspect it's him." 

Tom wishes he could take them back the second the words leave his mouth. 

"There's no evidence to support it, but the primary murder suspect is a crime boss that, until tonight, the GCPD believed was dead?" Oliver summarizes, raising an eyebrow while Tom begins internally kicking himself. "Wow. Did the GCPD get even more stupid and useless since the last time I was here? I didn't think that was possible."

"Look, I know it sounds crazy, but when Gordon was going over everything, he made a pretty good case for it-"

"Wait. GORDON is working this case?!" Oliver interrupts him suddenly, and it's the first time since Tom's sat down that he doesn't sound annoyed. In fact, he almost sounds a little worried. 

"No!" Tom sputters, flustered. How could he be so stupid?! There's no way in hell the GCPD wants him revealing the details of an open, active murder investigation to a civilian, especially a murder investigation that the freaking Commissioner has taken over and the only suspect of which is a supposedly dead, mass-murdering psychopath! 

"That's not what you just said." Oliver challenges, glaring daggers at him, and Tom scrambles desperately for something to say.

"Well, I mean, yes, he's involved. And he was there, at the scene, but he's not the one who's actually investigating it!"

"Then who is?" Oliver growls. 

Thankfully, the waitress steps over and saves Tom from leaking any more classified information. "Well, ain't this a surprise." She drawls, glancing first at Tom and then to Oliver. "I didn't realize you were meeting someone, doll." 

"I wasn't." Oliver tells her, sounding grumpy. 

"Yeah, we just bumped into each other!" Tom adds quickly, plastering a smile on his face, hoping he'll be able to drag out the conversation long enough for Oliver to forget the Red Hood altogether. "Small world, huh?" 

"It sure is, hun." The waitress indulges him, without any real interest. "And just what can I get 'cha, hm?" 

"Uh, steak and eggs." Tom mutters dejectedly, stealing a quick glance at the menu taped behind the counter. "And coffee. Decaf, please."

"Sure thing, hun." The waitress says, scribbling his order on a small notepad before she moves away, leaving Oliver and Tom alone again. There's a few moments of awkward silence after that, and while it makes Tom uncomfortable, Oliver seems perfectly at ease, taking another long, slow drag from his cigarette as he glares demandingly at Tom, who fidgets nervously in his seat. 

Tom watches as Oliver exhales a thin ribbon of pale smoke, and then, slowly, narrowed eyes never once leaving Tom's, leans forward, clearly getting ready to say something. 

"Listen." Tom blurts out suddenly, before Oliver has the chance. "I shouldn't have told you that. About the Red Hood, I mean. Like I said, the GCPD doesn't actually know if it was him - they just think it might be. So just forget I said anything, okay? Let's just...let's just talk about something else." 

Oliver glares at him for a moment longer. "...Sure." He says eventually. He sits back, eyes never once leaving Tom's. They're a strange, teal blue color that seem to almost glow in the dim lighting of the diner, and are incredibly hard for someone so young. "What do you wanna talk about?" His tone is almost as challenging as his eyes. 

"Uh..." Tom glances quickly around, and his gaze fall on Oliver's book. "So, uh, what'cha reading?" 

"'The Odyssey'." 

"Oh. Yeah, 'The Odyssey'." Tom says lamely. He barely remembers anything from his Classic Literature class in high school, but that sounds vaguely familiar. "The one about the Trojan War, right?"

"That's 'The Iliad'."

"Oh." Tom says again. "Right...I'm sorry, which one is 'The Odyssey' again?"

"Guy finally goes home." 

"Ah. Yeah, okay. Yeah, I think I remember that one." 

Oliver doesn't have an answer for that, and another curtain of awkward silence soon falls over them. Tom tries his best to think of something else, anything else, to break it, but for the life of him, he can't think of a single thing to say. Basic social skills, small talk topics, seem to have fled hopelessly beyond his grasp. He fiddles with a few of the sugar packets at the table, glances around the diner, and fidgets some more in his seat as the seconds tick agonizingly by, becoming increasingly more and more anxious as his brain continues to short-circuit uselessly. 

Not that Oliver seems to mind. In fact, after several embarrassingly long minutes pass, Tom eventually realizes that Oliver's attention seems to have drifted somewhere else entirely. Somewhere very, very far away, if the vaguely troubled look on his face is anything to go by. Tom watches him, studying him closely for the first time since they've met. There's something about Oliver he's never encountered before in another person. Something he can't quite put his finger on, but it's something hard and haunted and tragic, a weight he carries that seems chained to his very being. As he stares openly at the fading bruises, and split knuckles, the shock of white that streaks across his jet black hair, the thin, tight line of his mouth that seems to perpetually bow ever-so-slightly down, those terrifying eyes, he can't help but wonder just what it was Oliver must have been through that had carved him into something so raw. 

It's just as the waitress is circling back with Tom's order that Oliver suddenly stiffens in his seat, staring up at a point somewhere behind Tom's head with a newfound, intense interest. Tom glances curiously over his shoulder, and finds an ancient tv bolted to the opposite corner, broadcasting what appears to be the latest news regarding a series of explosions that had ravaged Juarez, Mexico only a few days ago.

"Loretta," Oliver asks the waitress as she sets a platter of food in front of Tom. "Would you mind turning that up?" 

She obliges him, and Tom half turns in his seat, wondering why this, of all things, is so worthy of Oliver's attention. 

"...now calling this the worst disaster to ever hit Juarez, with over one hundred sixty confirmed dead, several dozen reported missing, and almost two thousand injured. Hospital staff and relief workers continue to be overwhelmed by the number of people seeking aid, with even the most basic provisions and equipment in short supply. What's more, federal relief is expected to be further delayed by at least another week until the roads can be safely cleared, though many fear cartel intervention may hinder these efforts-" 

Tom shakes his head. "That's so awful, isn't it?" He says quietly, staring up at the grainy footage of the decimated city in horrified awe - the skeletal remains of cathedrals and municipal buildings, their facades now blackened and crumbling amidst piles of rubble, the streets littered with bits and pieces of iron and steel, concrete, and shards of glass winking ominously across the cracked pavement. At the firefighters and rescue workers and paramedics still working to evacuate the people still trapped under and inside the groaning ruins, ignoring their own raw and bleeding hands and the sweat that rolled freely down their brows. The wailing children and weeping women, and the terrified, the exhausted, the many hopeless now left to carry on. Tom studies their worn faces, pitying them. "Have they said yet if they've figured out what caused the explosions?" 

"They're still investigating it." Oliver mutters from behind him. "They haven't determined anything yet. But the governor held a press conference early this morning and said they believe it was some kind of terrorist attack."

"'Terrorist attack'?" Tom echoes, surprised, turning away from the television to gape at Oliver. "By who?" 

"The American government." Oliver tells him, sounding thoroughly unconcerned.

"The - wait a minute, they're saying WE were behind those explosions?!"

"Apparently."

"But," Tom sputters, staring at Oliver uncomprehendingly, feeling his stomach twist sharply at this bit of information, "But why?" 

"You know, he didn't really say." Oliver says airily. "Although he did hint that it may have something to do with the immigration crisis." 

Tom suddenly feels very, very ill. 

"Oh my God." He breathes, reaching up and gripping his head in his hands. "After everything that's happened at the border over the last few years...That would make sense."

"Yeah, that's the idea."

Tom blinks, and then slowly looks back up at Oliver. The horror and shock, the disgust and guilt that had been roiling inside him had come to a crashing halt at Oliver's words. "What's that supposed to mean?" He asks. "If the governor says-"

"Come on, Tom. You believe everything you hear?" Oliver says impatiently, and then rolls his eyes at Tom's puzzled look. "For fuck's sake, do I really have to spell it out for you? It. Was. A. LIE. Okay? It's all a lie. It wasn't something that we did, it didn't have anything to do with us. So will you relax now? You look like you're about to have an aneurysm." 

"But that doesn't make any sense." Tom protests. "Why would the Juarez government lie about something like that?" 

"Because," Oliver drawls, "That's what they always do when they need someone to blame." 

"But why would they need someone to blame?" Tom asks his slowly, feeling hopelessly lost.

"Jesus Christ." Oliver growls, eyes rolling briefly heavenward again before his piercing gaze settles back on Tom. "Because that's what the Juarez government does anytime something bad happens that can be tied directly back to the cartel." 

"The cartel?!" Tom squawks. "Wait, what are you talking about?! What does the cartel have to do with anything?" 

"Everything." Oliver murmurs slowly, leaning close. "The cartel owns Juarez. They control everything. And I mean everything. The police, the government. The border. All of it." His eyes narrow ever-so-slightly. "Don't you think it's odd that the news hasn't mentioned the fact that the only buildings targeted were the ones owned by the cartel?" 

"And just how do you know all this?" Tom scoffs back. "What, where you there?" 

Oliver doesn't answer him. Instead, he looks back up at the TV and takes a very deliberate sip of his coffee. Tom stares at him, stunned, as he takes in the fading bruises, the stitches and half-healed cuts, the arm still hanging limply in its sling. They're too fresh, too raw, to be more than a few days old. Which means Oliver had to have gotten them when he was in Mexico. Which means...

"Oh my god." He says. "You were." 

Oliver merely scowls at nothing in particular in response. 

"Holy shit." Tom breathes, staring at him, too stunned to say much of anything else. "Holy shit, man! How the - you-you-how did you - Fuck, man, do you have any idea how lucky you are to be alive right now?! Or that you were even able to make it out of there at all?! Jesus Christ, Oliver, they shut down the border and everything!" 

"...Yeah." Oliver murmurs quietly in response, eyes distant again. He sounds...almost regretful. Or guilty, even. Whatever it is, it's enough to give Tom pause, however short, and he feels his excitement begin to fade as he considers his quiet, mysterious friend. 

"So, uh, what were you even doing in Mexico anyway?" Tom asks him, glancing at the thick black strands that are weaving in and out of Oliver's lip. "Dangerous stuff, it looks like." 

Oliver turns back to him, glaring. 

"Humanitarian work." He spits, in that same, sarcastic, biting tone as before, as though he had just thrown out the most ridiculous answer possible and was daring Tom to call him a liar. Tom's starting to get the feeling he does that a lot. 

"Oh. Well, that's...awesome. " Tom says slowly, unsure how he's supposed to respond, but quite certain there's something very obvious that he's missing. "...What, um, what was it like down there?" 

Oliver cocks an eyebrow at him, the one that's been sewn back together. "Not great." He tells him. 

"Right." Tom answers weakly. Another bout of awkward silence looms threateningly on the horizon, and Tom scrambles for something, anything, to say before it can overtake them again. "So, um...which is worse? Gotham or Juarez?" 

Oliver lifts both eyebrows at him this time. "You're kidding right?" He asks. "It's not like Gotham is burning to the ground. Well," He corrects himself. "Not right now, anyway. But stick around long enough, someone'll try. I guarantee it." 

"Yeah, and that's the thing, isn't it?" Tom reminds him, somewhat impatiently. "People have tried. Plenty of times. More times than I can even remember. And I don't think anyone would be surprised if someone did try again. I mean...I've turned on my TV more times than I can count to see Gotham burning. Or mass shootings, power blackouts, corruption scandals, drug empires, bomb threats, rioting-"

"Yeah, Tom, I'm aware." Oliver reminds him pointedly, reaching over and stubbing out his cigarette. "So what?" 

Tom hesitates, not quite sure how to ask what his question and even less sure how Oliver will take it. 

"So...do you think there's any hope for Gotham?" He eventually finds himself asking aloud. "Do you think it can change?"

"It hasn't yet, so why should it start anytime soon?" 

"You really think Gotham is that bad?" 

"I know it is."

"Don't you ever...do you ever think about leaving it all behind for good?" 

"All the damn time." Oliver assures him bitterly. 

"So why don't you?" Tom pushes. "What's stopping you?" 

"Believe me, I've tried. It's not that simple." Tom tells him, shaking his head. "Gotham isn't...it's not just something you can walk away from. It...it's almost like becomes a part of you. And the thing is, if you're not careful, it can take you over. Last time I was here, it almost did." He pauses again, evidently struggling to find the right words to say. "I really hadn't planned on coming back here again. Not after that. It just sort of...happened." He sighs, and there's something in his expression that looks suspiciously like regret as he leans back against the booth. 

"You'll see what I mean." He says suddenly, and for some strange reason, Tom feels his stomach clench at his words. There's something about them that sound as much like a curse as they do a promise. 

He's quiet for a long time after that, and Tom finds he doesn't resent the silence quite so much as he puzzles over exactly what that means. As he sits there, pushing his food around his plate, he can't help but think about everything he's seen and heard and come to understand in the past few days, and it still only feels like he's scratching the surface when it comes to Gotham. There's so much he just simply doesn't understand. And probably never will. But if there's any truth to what everyone's been telling him- that Gotham was hopelessly diseased and rotted all the way through to its core, that it had always and would always be a crime-ridden hell-on-earth, then what was the solution? 

Tom had always believed it was the Batman. And yet, all Tom had been hearing since he'd landed was that Gotham's savior was a band aid at best, and that the city was no better off than it was before the Bat had come. And if that were true, then what did it mean? That Gotham really was a lost cause and the Bats were fighting a battle they would ultimately lose? That one day, when the Batman were gone and the people had forgotten them and what they stood for, Gotham would descend back into open violence and bloodshed and chaos? No matter how you looked at it, the future of Gotham City seemed pretty bleak. And if it was, then why would anyone, not just the Bats, ever even bother to try and do the right thing? When the GCPD had nothing but disdain for the law and few of the city's civic leaders seemed interested in pursuing real change for Gotham, and the people who were trying to protect and save it were forced to do so from the shadows? 

"It's gotten better, hasn't it?" Tom blurts suddenly. "Ever since Batman came along, things have gotten better. Right?" 

Oliver snorts. Derisively. "Yeah." He says. "Sure." 

Tom groans in frustration. "God, isn't there ANYONE in Gotham City who actually likes the Bat?" He snaps. "Anyone at all who thinks he's doing some good?!" 

"Yeah. Morons." 

Tom glares at Oliver this time. "You're wrong." He argues. "Things have gotten better since the Batman came along! You have see that - all the crimes he's stopped. All the bad people he's put away. All the people he's saved. Why can't you see that what he does means something?!" 

"Aren't you the one that just came from a murder scene?" Oliver points out coolly. "A murder that was supposedly committing by a crime boss who murdered almost a dozen people the last time he was here?"

"That's not-"

"You know the Batman was the one who tried to stop Red Hood the last time he was here and he failed. You really think this time will be any different?"

"Well-"

"You wanna know what the Bat does?" Oliver snaps impatiently at him. "He does what the police are either too incompetent or too corrupt to do - he tracks down criminals and drops them on the GCPD's doorstep. So what? You know what happens next? Nothing. Those pieces-of-shit make bail or they hire themselves some degenerate scumbag lawyer who gets them off or cuts them a plea deal. Or they go before a jury who doesn't give a shit or has been threatened by the mob. Or they get sent to Arkham, which any half-wit with two working brain cells could escape from. Either way, they're all back on the streets in a matter of weeks. So, no. The Batman's no hero. And he sure as hell isn't doing anything that's actually helping a damn thing." 

"Yeah? And what have you done to change things?" Tom challenges him, feeling bold. 

"You'd be surprised."

Tom can't help but scoff. "Yeah. Running away to Mexico and coming back home when things get a little too difficult for you sounds like a great solution." 

Oliver's lips twist ever so slightly into something like a smile. A cruel, shadowy imitation of one that doesn't quite reach his cold eyes. Tom feels the hairs on the back of his neck prickle at the look that Oliver's giving him. 

"You really wanna know what my answer to all this is?" He whispers slowly, never once taking his eyes off Tom's as he leans across the table. There's a strange gleam in Oliver's eyes now- a shining, hungry look that makes Tom incredibly uneasy. He edges back away from him, wishing he hadn't asked as Oliver continues, either unaware of Tom's discomfort or uncaring. "Alright, Tommy, here it is. But brace yourself, 'cause I don't think you're gonna like it." He warns, voice dangerously low. "...If it were up to me? I'd make sure every one those evil sons-a-bitches never had the chance to hurt anyone else in this town ever again. Every dealer, every gangster. Every rapist and murderer. Every dirty cop and crooked politician. If I'd find 'em..." He pauses very briefly, still looking Tom dead in the eye. "I'd be the last thing they'd ever see." He promises. "I'd put them on their knees myself. Right on the steps of the GCPD headquarters. Just to be poetic. One bullet. Execution style...Right between the eyes. Quick and easy. Even painless." He cocks his head, the smile long gone. "Because I'm just so goddamm nice." 

Tom manages to resist the urge to shudder at Oliver's words, but only barely. The way Oliver says it - so calm and cold and matter-of-fact - makes Tom believe for a one insane moment that he actually means it. That this is something Oliver would really do if given the chance. Without so much as hesitating. And for the first time since they've met, it occurs to Tom that Oliver might be, well...dangerous. That he's actually someone Tom should really be afraid of...

Tom jumps when Oliver's cellphone, laying innocently on the table, suddenly begins to ring, shattering the heavy silence that had fallen over them in an instant. Oliver glances over at it, and the moment he does Tom slumps back against the booth, heart hammering forcefully against his ribs and feeling like he can breathe normally again now that he's no longer pinned beneath Oliver's icy gaze. 

"Shit." Oliver mutters to himself, frowning down at his phone. "I gotta go." 

Tom watches him as he slides out from the booth in one fluid motion, feeling oddly dazed and detached as Oliver tosses a handful of bills onto the table. "Well, Tom, it's been fun. As always." He says sarcastically. "We should really do this again sometime. How's 'never' work for you?" 

It's only when Oliver cocks an eyebrow expectantly at him a full minute later that Tom realizes he's supposed to say something back.

"Yeah." He croaks, offering him a weak smile. "Sure thing, man, that works for me." 

Oliver smirks slightly in response and turns to leave, tucking his wallet back inside his jacket pocket. And as he does, his jacket parts a little. Just enough for Tom to catch a glimpse of polished metal, cold and gleaming in the leather holster under Oliver's arm. 

This time, Tom can't quite hold back his shudder as he watches Oliver turn and disappear silently into the night. 

\----------

Jason calls Maria back immediately. 

"What is it?" He asks her gruffly when she answers, ducking into a pitch-black alley. Somewhere in the distance, he can hear the wailing of police sirens. Across the street, he sees a group of men huddled together under a flickering neon sign, and he just barely makes out the small packet of powder and roll of bills that change hands.

"We just got word." Maria tells him, sounding grim. "He's left Juarez."

Jason swears colorfully as he continues to navigate the labyrinth of Gotham side streets, making his way swiftly and surely in the direction of his nearest safe house. "Any idea where he's heading?" 

"Yes. And you're not gonna like it." She warns him. Jason scoffs. Since when has the universe ever cared about what Jason does or doesn't like? And more importantly, why should it start now? 

"Maria. Just tell me-"

"Gotham, Jay. He's coming to Gotham." 

That stops Jason in his tracks. A few streets over, he hears the unmistakable sound of gunshots, then screaming. 

"Jason?" Maria calls softly. "Are you still there?" 

"Yeah." He murmurs back. "Yeah, I'm still here. Thanks, Maria. I'll take care of it." 

"I didn't tell you that so you would go after him." She snaps at him in response. "I was just trying to warn you-"

"Well, consider me warned." 

"Jay, please. Don't do it. You're gonna get yourself killed." 

"Wouldn't be the first time." Jason tells her, smiling sadly. "Bye, Maria. And thanks again."

"Jay-!" 

He doesn't want to hear her try and convince him otherwise. He's come too far to turn back now.


	5. November 9, 1:53 PM

As much as Tom would never admit it out loud, he was really starting to regret not taking Schreiner's advice. Because by the time Nora had finished with the sketch artist, given and signed her official statement, and had been released from police custody, he felt dead on his feet. Even after four cups of coffee, there's a steady, stabbing pain that's been slowly building between his eyes, and his hands are shaking so bad he can barely hold his pen. He doubts either one is going away anytime soon. And what's worse is that Schreiner seems to know just how miserable he is, too.

"Well!" Schreiner practically shouts, clapping Tom forcefully on the shoulder as he walks by. Tom tries not to wince too sharply when he does. "The whore has spoken!" He tosses Nora's statement on the desk, and Tom bites down a groan as the heavy stack of papers lands with a loud 'thunk' in front of him. "Turns out, we might actually have ourselves a witness after all!" 

Tom merely grunts as he pulls the document toward him and begins to read.

"'At approximately 11:45 on the night of November 8...heard shouting and crying coming from a nearby alley...a young boy then ran out from the alley and down the street...boy was dressed in dark pants, a yellow Gotham Knights jacket, and white sneakers...followed by the sound of a single gunshot...waited roughly twenty minutes until the police showed up...No one else left the alley..." He murmurs aloud, scanning the words that are swimming before his eyes. The last paper in the stack is the sketch's artist's rendition of the boy. Tom studied the drawing, but there's not much to go on. Vague details at best - small, delicate features, curly dark hair. There are no doubt dozens of boys across Gotham who would fit this description, but only one of them knows what happened last night in that alley. And if there's any truth to what either Schreiner or Gordon suspect - that this case is drug-related or somehow connected to the Red Hood - then it's very likely that this boy is in grave danger.

"So what happens now?" Tom mumbles, pinching his brow and pushing the stack of papers back to Schreiner. 

"Now's the time for legwork." Schreiner says, sounding way too cheerful for Tom's liking. 

"Meaning what, exactly?" Tom asks him reluctantly.

"Meaning it's time to hit the streets. See, this is the part where we round up some grunts to drive around the Bowery until we find the little brat. Which means you, you lucky son-of-a-bitch you, are about to find out what it means to be a beat cop." 

It's harder to swallow back the groan this time. "Okay. When do we leave?"

"Oh, I'm not going. Didn't you hear me?" Schreiner tells him, grinning from ear to ear. "Unfortunately this kind of work is a little bit below my pay grade."

"Tracking down the one person who may have witnessed the murder you're investigating is below your pay grade?" Tom questions him flatly as the throbbing between his eyes intensifies. 

"It is when it's not actually your murder investigation." Schreiner reminds him. "Or have you forgotten? Gordon gave this case to the Bat." 

"But it's your name attached to the case." Tom points out, gesturing to the large white board in the homicide unit's break room, which lists every open investigation and the detective in charge. 

"Pfft. Yeah, like it really matters" Schreiner says, rolling his eyes. 

"Whatever." Tom mutters. "So if I'm not going with you, then who am I going with?" 

"Don't know. Whoever's dumb enough to have you, I guess." Schreiner tells him. "Come on, Newsweek, let's go find you a babysitter." 

Tom mutters a few choice words under his breath as he stumbles to his feet and follows Schreiner down the hall towards the bullpen, where the officers on duty will be having roll-call when the evening shift starts. Ahead of him, Schreiner whistles loudly and off-key as he leads Tom along, but it's easy to ignore him when Tom's head is pounding in rhythm to the cacophony of the GCPD, which has somehow managed to quadruple since last night. Tom rubs his eyes. It's gonna be a long day. 

As they come around the bend, Tom glances up, and what he sees stops him dead in his tracks.

"Holy. Shit." He breathes, staring at the figure at the end of the hall. 

"What?" Schreiner asks, coming to an abrupt halt and following Tom's line of sight suspiciously. He suddenly frowns, then rolls his eyes. "Of all the uniforms in this place. Of course you would pick out Dick Grayson, wouldn't you?"

"So that's really him?" Tom whispers back.

"Yeah, that's him." Schreiner confirms, sounding annoyed. "So what?"

He looks exactly like the tabloid pictures. Maybe not as tall as Tom had pictured, but there was no mistaking him. "I can't believe that's him." Tom says. He turns to Schreiner. "What's he like?" 

Schreiner actually considers it for a moment. "Not what you'd expect." Is all he eventually says. 

"What do you mean?" 

"I mean...he's not some spoiled, rich-kid brat." Schreiner tells him. "When he first joined the force, none of us thought he'd even last a day. But I gotta give the kid credit: he proved us wrong. He's one of the best we've got." 

"Well that's a good thing, right?" 

"I guess." Schreiner mutters grumpily.

"I'm sorry. You guess?" 

"He's almost...too good." Schreiner elaborates, eyes narrowed as he drags Tom down the hall. "It's like he was born for this job. Puts a lot of the boys here to shame." 

"...And why is that a problem?" 

Schreiner just sighs. "You really don't get it, do you, Newsweek?" 

"Guess not." Tom mutters, and he finds his thoughts drifting back to the conversation he had with Oliver the night before. 

"Just know this, Tom: it doesn't pay to be a hero in Gotham." 

"I'll try and remember that. Hey! I don't suppose you can get me a ride-along with Grayson, could you?" Tom asks eagerly. "So I can get his opinion on that statement?"

Schreiner snorts. "Fuck no. Absolutely no way in hell am I letting you anywhere near Bruce Wayne's kid. The two of you together are a lawsuit just waiting to happen, and God knows I can't afford it." 

\---------- 

Dick Grayson groaned when he caught sight of himself in the locker room mirror. Apparently he hadn't covered the bruising along his jaw quite as well as he'd thought. Sparing the room a quick glance, he turned back to his reflection and dabbed impatiently at the line of foundation blotting his chin, trying to blend it evenly against his skin before anyone saw him. He turned his head, angling it toward the light, and sighed. He doubted anyone would notice, but he'd have to remember to clean it off before tonight. The last thing he needed was Bruce lecturing him on the proper techniques of makeup application. 

"Hey, man!" Jake Copeland called out, thumping Dick on the back as he passed by. "Didn't know you were working today." 

"Yeah, I picked up Burns' shift for him." Dick told him, grabbing his boots and sinking down into a nearby bench to pull them on. 

"You're a better man than I, Grayson." Copeland told him solemnly, pulling his uniform jacket off and tossing it inside his locker with seemingly great disgust. 

"Not really." Dick said with a shrug. "Now he owes me a favor."

"If you think Burns'll see it that way you really are as stupid as you look."

"Ha, ha." Dick said flatly, flipping him the bird. "Enjoy your day off, asshole."

"Oh, I will." Copeland promised him smugly. "And I'll be thinking of you the whole time, Grayson. Poor miserable bastard, working an extra shift you won't ever get back." 

"I'll get it back." 

"Yeah, right. Hey, just don't do anything I wouldn't do. Especially after what happened last night. Be careful out there." 

"Why? What happened last night?" Dick asked him, frowning. As far as he knew, last night had been pretty quiet, considering what most nights in Gotham were like.

"You haven't heard?" Copeland asked, sounding surprised. "I thought for sure everyone knew by now." 

"Knew what?" 

"Jose Desoto's body was found in Crime Alley last night."

"Who?" 

"One of the black tar dealers."

"Okay." Dick had never heard of him. How important could one dead drug dealer in a city of hundreds really be?

"Single gunshot wound to the head. No witnesses either. At least, none that we've been able to confirm." Copeland continued. 

"Wow. So just like every other night in Gotham, then." Dick said sarcastically as he finished lacing his boots. 

"Yeah, well. It was enough to get Gordon to come down and take a look."

"Wait, GORDON?!" 

"Yeah, and get this: Gordon thinks it was the Red Hood." 

Dick was vaguely aware that Jake was still talking, that he was probably filling him in on the details of whatever had happened last night and it was undoubtedly important, but whatever it was he was saying, Dick simply didn't hear it. The air suddenly seemed far too thin to carry sound, much less breathe, and the world had gone strangely cold and silent, as though Dick had been plunged deep underwater. He swallowed hard, willing himself to ignore the heavy pounding of his heart and focus on what Jake was saying. 

"How sure is Gordon that it's him?" He heard himself asking as though from a great distance away. 

"Sure enough to call the Bat." Dick looked over at Copeland sharply, who raised an eyebrow back. "Yeah. It's bad." Copeland said as he pulled on his coat. He looked pointedly at Dick. "I mean it, Grayson. Be careful out there."

"Always am." 

Copeland snorted. "No, you're not." 

Dick chuckled weakly, watching as he walked away. It was only after Copeland had disappeared down the hall and out of sight that Dick allowed himself to slump forward, burying his face in his hands. 

The Red Hood...

...Jason...

Jason had finally come back to Gotham. 

Dick had always known he would. He just didn't...he didn't think it would be this soon. He'd always thought he'd have more time... 

He'd always assumed that when Jason did finally return, he'd be ready for it. 

But he wasn't ready for this. And after everything that had happened, after everything they had been through, maybe he would never be. Because losing Jason, both the first time and the last, of knowing what had happened to him and what he had become had been the hardest thing he'd ever had to endure. And Dick wasn't sure he could do it again. Especially if it meant...

Dick shook his head. The thought of what they'd have to do with Jason if they caught him, of what it would do to Bruce, was too painful to bear. 

He sat there for a very long time, listening vaguely to the sounds that echoed through the GCPD and feeling more exhausted than he could ever remember. The day that lay stretched before him now seemed unbearably long, and he really wished he hadn't agreed to take Burns' shift. Whatever the day had in store for him, it didn't matter anymore. He needed to talk to Bruce. They needed to figure this out. What their plan was. Because if there was any truth to what Gordon suspected, and knowing what had happened the last time...Dick didn't even want to think about what Jason might have planned this time around...

A sudden chorus of boisterous laughter sounded from down the hall, and sent Dick crashing back to earth. Glancing toward the open door of the locker room, Dick quickly forced himself to straighten up, plastering an easy grin on his face as a group of officers from the morning shift filed in, loud and happy as they shouted insults and traded jokes with one another, completely unaware that Dick was drowning silently beside them. 

\---------- 

"This. Sucks." Dick groaned to himself, resisting the urge to bang his head against the steering wheel of his car. 

If there was one thing Dick hated about the beat, it was this. Driving around aimlessly for hours and hours and getting absolutely no where. Especially in the Bowery, where the only reaction a GCPD patrol car got was distrusting stares and turned backs. Tracking down Detective Schreiner's witness was much easier said than done, apparently. It was getting closer to the end of Dick's shift and no one - not Dick, not the other officers patrolling the area, or the few people they had stopped to question - had seen anyone even remotely matching the witness's description. It was enough to make Dick want to scream. This kid was a key witness in Jose Desoto's murder, likely the only one who really knew what had happened and the one person who could confirm whether Dick's long lost little brother had finally returned or not, and he was simply no where to be found. 

'Jason could have found him.' Dick found himself thinking wistfully, 'Jason knew Crime Alley better than anybody. If Jay were here with me, I'd have found this kid hours ago.' 

Of course...if he and Jay were still on speaking terms...if Jay was still with the family...odds were Dick wouldn't even be looking for this kid in the first place. 

He quickly shook his head, banishing the thought. 'Don't go there'. He scolded himself instead. 'Just do the job'. 

Dick rubbed his eyes and glanced down the way at a group of kids playing soccer in the street. Dick watched them for a minute, trying not to think about Jason, but it was hard not to - looking at their scowling, hardened faces, their torn and dirty clothes, listening as they kicked their half-deflated ball back and forth and spitting curses at each other so profound they would have made grown sailors blush, Dick couldn't help but see Jason in each and every one of them. And despite his best efforts, Dick found his thoughts spinning hopelessly back to Jay. 

He hadn't been there the night Bruce first brought Jason home, but he'd heard the story enough times that it felt like he had. He could picture Jay, punching and kicking frantically as Bruce lifted him out of the Batmobile, just as clearly as he could see Bruce, holding Jay at arm's length, a faint smile playing on his lips while Jason threatened to bite him between curses. 

Jason had always been like that - jagged edges and sharp words. Had always been so cynical and world-weary, even from the beginning. He had already seen so much, already knew too well just how cold the world could be, understood exactly the evils that people were capable of to be anything but unapologetically blunt and distrustful. Though he'd tried, Jason had never lost those jaded, hardened edges. Up until the very end, he never really forgot the Narrows. 

And of course, the entire city had their own opinion about Jason and where he belonged. The Gotham elite never forgave Jason for what he was, and both his harsh tongue and his refusal to to see the world as anything but what it actually was definitely didn't help. While Dick had always understood that being part of Bruce's world was nothing more than a performance, a role, and at times, a lie, Jason had made it very clear he had no intention of ever playing the game. And Gotham was quick to punish him accordingly. Careless whispers that echoed across the vaulted ceilings of galas and charities, the upturned noses of Jason's classmates, the simpering smiles that didn't quite meet the cold eyes of shareholders and investors when they discussed the future of Wayne Enterprises, the slight dip in the company's stock value the day after the announcement of Jason's adoption, the tabloid articles that never failed to remind their readers of the humble beginnings of Bruce Wayne's heir. Jason had rolled his eyes at it all, and told them that he didn't care, and they pretended they believed him. 

Dick sighed. Nothing had ever been easy when it involved Jason. Certainly not then, and definitely not now. But knowing who Jason had once been and who he had become...knowing what he was capable of...what they needed to do...

Something suddenly collided with the windshield of Dick's car with a loud 'thunk', and he jerked sharply to see a half-deflated soccer ball roll sluggishly down his hood before it dropped to the ground, unmoving. Dick quirked an eyebrow, and looked up to meet the wide, horrified eyes of the Crime Alley kids he'd been watching, each and every one of them now frozen where they stood. Shaking his head, he opened his car door and stepped out, moving to retrieve the ball, but the moment the door clicked open, whatever spell had been holding the kids in place was shattered. 

"Cops! Cops!" One of the boys hollered before whipping around and taking off down the street like a shot, the others hot on his heals. "Every man for himself!" 

"Nice going, genius!" Shouted another, shoving a smaller boy forcefully to the ground. 

"Hey!" Dick called, sprinting over to the boy who was now sprawled in the middle of the street. "Hey, are you okay?" 

But the boy cowered away from him. "I didn't mean it, honest!" He cried, scooting away from Dick as fast as he could. 

"I know you didn't." Dick assured him. "Come on, kid-"

"It was an accident, I swear!" The boy said, sounding dangerously close to tears, "Please don't arrest me!" 

"I'm not gonna arrest you." Dick told him, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "I just wanna make sure you're okay." 

The boy eyed Dick warily for a long moment, and Dick sighed, holding out his hand. 

"Come on," He said, "It's dangerous to be sitting in the middle of the road." 

"Not like it's busy." He heard the boy mutter under his breath, but he took Dick's hand and allowed him to pull him to his feet, which Dick counted as a win. 

"You okay?" Dick asked him, watching as the kid dusted off his jacket, his scraped palms leaving thin trails of blood against the fabric. 

"Fine." 

"Hmm." Dick grunted back, squinting suspiciously at him. 

"...What?" The boy snapped, squirming under Dick's scrutinizing stare. 

"Nothing. It's just that that's an interesting way to wear a jacket." Dick observed, and the kid scowled back. 

"What do you care?" He snapped. 

"I don't." Dick said with a shrug, trying to ignore his pounding heart. "It's just if I had a Gotham Knights jacket as cool as that, I wouldn't be wearing it inside out. I'd want to show it off." He paused, tilting his head. "So how come you don't want anybody to see you wearing it?" 

"I didn't steal it or nothing!" The kid told him, tugging at the zipper until the bright yellow inside was no longer visible. 

"I never said you did." Dick reminded him. 

"It ain't none of your business anyway." The boy declared, edging away from Dick. 

"Funny you should mention that." Dick said. "'Cause I've actually been looking for a young boy in a Gotham Knights jacket all day." He looked pointedly at the kid. "You wouldn't happen to know what happened to Jose Desoto the other night, would you?" 

All color drained instantly from the kid's face and Dick grabbed him before he could bolt away. 

"Let me go!" The boy shouted, writhing in Dick's grasp. "I don't gotta talk to you!" 

"Jeez, kid, relax! I just wanna ask you a couple questions-"

"No!" The kid shouted, aiming a kick at Dick's shins. "I'm not going with you!" 

"Ow! Man, spiteful little thing aren't you?" 

"Let go of me! Let go! I didn't kill nobody, I swear!" 

"So who did?" 

The boy stilled instantly, and Dick watched, perplexed, as he sagged in Dick's grasp. "You wouldn't believe me." He said softly, so softly that Dick almost didn't hear him. 

"Try me." Dick said, crouching down to the boy's level, who avoided his gaze. "Look, kid, you're not in trouble or anything, I promise. We know you didn't kill anybody. We're just trying to figure out what happened last night, okay?" 

The boy frowned back, studying Dick suspiciously for a long moment, but he didn't say anything. Dick heaved a sigh. 

"Okay." He said. "How about this? I'm supposed to get a break so I can eat. How about I buy you a burger? You know, to say I'm sorry for scaring you?" 

"You didn't scare me-" The boy protested, sounding deeply offended. 

"And," Dick continued over him, "Whatever I happen to hear during that time would stay strictly off the record. You follow me? So if someone were to tell me what exactly happened to Jose Desoto last night, I wouldn't have to report that to anybody. Especially not the GCPD." 

The boy hesitated, and then very slowly nodded his head. Dick smiled encouragingly at him. "Great! What's your name?" 

"Anthony." 

"Anthony? It's nice to meet you. I'm Dick." 

The kid gave him a look. "Seriously?"

Dick rolled his eyes. "You know, kid, you remind me more and more of someone I once knew." He grumbled. "Come on. Let's get out of the street."

\----------

"Yes!" Dick cheered quietly to himself, pulling an old pack of gummy worms from his glove box and dusting it off. "I knew these were still in here. Want one?" 

Anthony glanced over at him and shook his head, looking vaguely disgusted, before turning back to his burger, wolfing it down as though he hadn't eaten in days. Dick shrugged. "Fine, more for me." He said, tossing one into his mouth. "So. How'd you know Jose?" 

Anthony stiffened slightly beside him. "Well, I...I didn't really know him." He confessed after a long moment. "I only met him a few times. He was friends with my Aunt Lydia's boyfriend. So sometimes he'd come by my aunt's house and they'd talk."

"About what?" 

"Business." 

"Do you know what kind of business?"

Anthony shrugged, avoiding Dick's eyes. "Not really." Anthony told him, nibbling on a French fry. "They were always in the other room." 

Dick frowned, eyeing him suspiciously. He was sure Anthony knew a lot more than he was letting on, but he decided not to push it for now. 

"Hmm. Okay." Was all he said, biting another gummy worm in half. "So walk me through last night. What exactly happened?" 

"My mom dropped me off at my aunt's house on her way to the diner. I'm s'posed to spend the night there when she's gotta work the night shift."

"Was Jose already at your aunt's house when you got there?" 

"No, he showed up later. After my mom left." 

"Do you know what time that was?" 

"I don't know. Sometime after eleven, I think?" 

Eleven o'clock. Only about an hour before Desoto had been killed. "Wow. So pretty late, then." 

"I guess."

"And do you know why he came over? Did he want to talk business with your aunt's boyfriend?" 

"Yeah. He seemed angry though. I could hear him shouting and throwing things around." 

"Could you hear what he was saying?" 

"Some of it. He kept saying that 'everything was gone'." 

"'Everything was gone'?" Dick echoed, puzzled. 

"Yeah." 

Everything was gone...what exactly did that mean? He couldn't have been talking about the drugs - from what Dick understood, Desoto had been found with several ounces of heroin on him, and the morning shift had turned up even more at his apartment when they'd searched it a few hours earlier. So, if it wasn't the drugs, then what was it? "Okay." Dick said slowly. "So Jose shows up to your aunt's house late last night and he's angry about something. What happened next?" 

"I left."

"You-you left?!"

"Yeah. So?" 

"So?!" Dick sputtered. "It was almost twelve o'clock at night! In Crime Alley! Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?!"

"I wasn't gonna stay there. With him." 

"Why not?" 

Anthony looked away. "Don't act like you don't know." He snarled. "Everyone knows about Jose and what he did."

"Well, let's just say for fun that I don't." Dick pressed. "Tell me what Jose did." 

"Why don't you ask your buddies down at the GCPD?" Anthony snapped, tossing one of his fries out the window and into a nearby gutter. "I'm sure they could tell you all about what really happened to those kids." 

"Wait, wait, wait. What?" Dick asked. "What kids? What are you talking about?" 

Anthony shot him a dirty look. "Guess." 

Dick bit his lip. There were a number of things that he could 'guess' Desoto could have done that would drive a young boy to flee the safety of his aunt's house in the middle of the night, and none of them were anything good. But he didn't want to guess. What he wanted, what he needed, was to be sure. He needed to what exactly he was up against. But he also knew he couldn't push the kid any more than he had to. 

"Okay." Was all he said, deciding to drop it for now. "So what happened after you left? Did Jose follow you?" 

"My aunt must have realized I was gone and sent him and her boyfriend to come find me. I could hear them shouting my name. But I didn't want to go back. They sounded so...angry, and I was afraid I was gonna be in trouble. And even though I couldn't see anyone, I kept getting this feeling that someone was watching me. So I started running. There was a shortcut up ahead, down one of the alleys. I thought I'd be able to lose them there, 'cause there's this fence that cuts through it. One of the boards is loose - you can pull it aside and slip through."

"But there wasn't a fence in that alley." Dick pointed out. "It was a dead end."

"I know. It was too dark. I couldn't really see where I was going. I went down the wrong alley." 

"So you were trapped."

"Yeah." Anthony said quietly. "There was a fire escape on one of the buildings. I was jumping up, trying to reach it, but it was too high. And then something grabbed me." Anthony suddenly began to cry. "I thought for sure I was a goner. He was so angry, and I don't know why. He had me up against the wall. He was...choking me and shouting at me. He kept saying I was more trouble than I was worth, and that no one would ever miss me if I was gone..."

The more Anthony told him about what happened, the more confused Dick was by the whole thing. What was Desoto so angry about? And why had he taken it out on the kid? And what about the kids Anthony mentioned? As far as Dick knew, Desoto had never been convicted or even suspected of anything involving kids - so what had Anthony meant when he said the GCPD had known 'what DeSoto had done'? Was there something going on within the GCPD that Dick didn't know about? A cover-up of some kind? It wouldn't be the first time. But if so, who was behind it, and why? Dick shook his head. Those were questions Anthony couldn't answer. They were questions he'd have to find out for himself.

"So how'd you get away?" Dick asked instead, though he was pretty sure he already knew.

Anthony sucked in a few shuddering breaths, wiping his nose. "He saved me." He whispered reverently. 

"Who did?" 

"The Red Hood." Anthony told him, and Dick felt his stomach sink. "He just...came out of nowhere. I don't even think Jose knew what hit him. As soon as he got Jose off me, he told me to run." 

"Anthony, listen to me. This is very important - are you sure it was the Red Hood?"

Anthony hesitated, eyes darting back and forth across Dick's face. "...I'm sure." He eventually whispered. 

Dick exhaled slowly, burying his face in his hands. "Dammit." He muttered. 

He could feel Anthony watching him. "Are you gonna arrest him?" The boy asked. 

"Yeah, that's what I'm supposed to do." Dick told him. "He killed someone." 

"But he only did it to save me." Anthony protested. "Please, he didn't do nothing wrong." 

Dick sighed. Leave it to Jason to make things so much more complicated than they needed to be. "That's not for you or me to decide." He said. 

"Hmph." Was all Anthony said before he turned away, glaring at the gutter where the mutilated French fry lay dangling over the grate. "You and the Bats think the Red Hood is a bad guy, but he's the only one who's actually done something to help us. He gets it, not you. I'm glad he's back. And I hope he kills all the other people like Jose."

"Oh, trust me, kid, I'm sure there's nothing he'd like better." Dick assured him bitterly. Anthony nodded. 

"Good." Was all he said. 

\----------

For as long as Dick had known Bruce, and for how well, Dick knew there were parts of Bruce that he would never fully understand. Bruce was, after all, a man haunted by regret and a man driven by his obsession for something he could never have. Which meant he could never be what Dick and the others needed him to be, no matter how much he tried or even wanted. Because the unfortunate fact of the matter was that Bruce was irreparably broken, and that was something that would never change. 

And out of everything that had destroyed Bruce over the years, losing Jason was by far the greatest and the worst. And after he came back, after seeing what Jason had become because of him...

Bruce had never spoken about what exactly happened that night, after he'd gone after Jason alone, and Dick had never dared to press him, despite how badly he wanted to. As frustrating as it was, Dick knew that there were some things that Bruce simply couldn't handle, and emotion, especially painful or uncomfortable emotion, was first and foremost on that list. 

So when Dick found him that night, bent before the Bat-Computer and working on what appeared to be a report from last night, he couldn't help but hesitate. If it was true, if Jason really had returned to Gotham, how was he supposed to tell Bruce what he'd found out today from Anthony, when he knew it was going to tear Bruce apart all over again? 

And yet...

Supposedly, Gordon had already spoken to Bruce about Jason last night. And if that were true, if Bruce already suspected Jay was back, then why hadn't he said anything about it? Was he planning on going after Jason alone again? Without even telling Dick and Alfred and the others that he was back? Dick couldn't believe that he'd actually keep something as big as this from them.

But...

Bruce had lied to them all so many times in the past, believing he was shielding them from any further, unnecessary hurt and never realizing that the lie would hurt them so much more than the truth ever could.

Dick watched Bruce's fingers as they flew across the keys, wondering what the best way to approach this was, when Bruce suddenly called out to him.

"Dick." Bruce said, eyes never once leaving the screen. "Is everything alright? You've been...unusually quiet since you've arrived." 

Dick winced, and reluctantly dragged himself over, forcing himself to relax. "Yeah, I'm fine, B." He said with what he hoped was a convincing, easy grin. "Just tired from last night." 

"Did something happen?" 

"Not really. It's actually been kinda quiet out there lately." Dick said, trying to ignore the uncomfortable pounding of his heart. Bruce just grunted in response. 

"What about you?" Dick asked him. "Anything exciting happen while you were on patrol?"

"No." 

"Really? Nothing at all?"

"Not especially." 

"Oh. 'Cause there's a rumor floating around the GCPD that Gordon wanted your help with something." Dick pushed. "And nothing good ever happens when Gordon needs you." 

"I haven't seen or spoken with Gordon in almost two weeks." Bruce told him coolly, and Dick felt his stomach sink at his words. 

"...Oh." Was all he could manage as something white hot and painful exploded in his chest. "Well, that's...good. I guess it really was just a rumor after all then." 

Bruce only grunted in response, and Dick abruptly turned away, clenching his fists in an effort to try and still his shaking hands. "Right." He said, swallowing hard. "I need to, uh, go get my suit." 

If Bruce had anything to say to that, Dick didn't wait around to hear it, striding quickly to the Batcave locker room instead, blinking furiously as hot, angry tears sprang to his eyes. 

He couldn't believe it. Bruce had lied to him. Again. 

He didn't know why he was so upset, why it was such a shock - Bruce lied all the time, to all of them. And he always had his reasons. Dick knew that. It wasn't like this was anything new. So why did it hurt so much this time?

As Dick made his way to the locker room and passed the cabinet that had once been Jason's, he couldn't help but pause. Hesitatingly, he brushed his fingers over the icy metal, sighing deeply. 

He had never had the chance to make things right with Jason. They had been fighting when Jason died, and Dick hadn't even been there to try and help save Jason from the Joker. He'd had to live with that guilt ever since. And when he'd come back, and Bruce had realized just who was behind the red hood, he'd taken Dick's only hope of having any kind of closure with Jay.

Dick shook his head.

It didn't even matter. Not really. If Bruce didn't want his help this time too, then fine. 

But that didn't mean Dick had any intention of sitting back and doing nothing. Not this time. He was more than capable of investigating this case on his own. And he'd be damned if he let Bruce try and stop him. 

Dick made his way over to his own locker, shrugging off his jacket at he did. 

No way in hell was he gonna let Bruce go after Jason alone again. 

And if they had to put his little brother away, no way was he gonna miss the chance to at least tell him goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to continue the story but I make no promises.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
